…
…
"You don't ever let the opponent walk all over you. If you're getting attacked, you fight back."
…
…
It was a fine afternoon in the pretty little city of Compiegne.
A farmer could come in and sell his produce at ease on such a day. Tomatoes, carrots, leeks, cabbages, and lentils and fruits were a staple and they always sold. Even if they had arrived past noon, the plaza square was still crowded. He could sell out in a few hours, and perhaps purchase supper and stay the night at an inn. That is, if his unexpected companion would be agreeable to it.
"Cabbage! Tomatoes! They can't come any fresher than this!"
The farmer gritted his teeth and pulled over his straw hat. He crossed his arms as he sat behind the vegetable racks, hunched in his stool. Nothing much was more mundane than waiting hours for customers to buy his goods, and sometimes only for them to obstinately complain and give one excuse or another before walking away.
He glanced behind him. The mysterious blue-haired girl remained sitting on a bench under a storefront's shade. She wore a brown woolen cloak over her head so that her features were mostly unnoticeable, but she retained that same patient, aloof expression on her face. She was a noble, so he discovered when his life had been saved from the vicious gang of bandits they had confronted on the perilous journey through the forest to here.
He didn't know her name. He didn't even know she was a noble until she had brought out the ridiculously sized staff she carried at all times, magically produced razor-sharp icicles from thin air, then brandished her sword - a talking, annoying magical sword - before proceeding to run through the leader of the bandits.
The girl hadn't spoken another word in hours. Since they had passed through the last village, and arrived at Compiegne city half an hour earlier, he hadn't heard a peep except for the loudmouthed sword which called itself 'Derflinger'. The farmer sighed.
"Milady. I'm afraid this might take awhile, but you don't have to stay here. I'll be just sellin' off the remainder of my vegetables - it won't take much long - and then I'll drive you to Lutece. It will still be at least three days' ride from here… you could take a stroll around the town though, miss. Perhaps get yourself something to eat. I'll just wait for you to get back."
The girl slowly stood up. So did the farmer, who stepped towards her. He paused for a moment. He fished out three Gallian écus and offered it to her with an awkward, yellowed smile.
"It ain't much, Milady, but it's as much as I can spare from what little I've got in my pockets right now."
The girl gave a short answer.
"No."
"But you haven't had anythin' to eat since we got here, miss! You must be famished."
"She's hitching a ride with you, mister, but she's not broke," the sword, Derflinger chimed in.
"Eh, shut-up," the farmer snapped. He scratched his head. "Well, I didn't mean to assume, Milady. I's just trying to be grateful. You did save me and my wagon after all."
At the beginning, he assumed that she was just some shy village girl. She offered an ecu just so she can ride along with the wagon to the next town, and for all he knew she could've been traveling in the same manner for quite some time. He already thought of how unusual it was - an ecu just for a lousy ride in his dusty wagon? That was big money, but of course he said nothing. The girl could be a wealthy noble, he thought then. After the fiasco that morning and his discovery, he became as agreeable as possible.
The girl stared up at the man. After a while, she opened her mouth.
"Okay."
The farmer pocketed his money. He advised, "Milady, please avoid the pubs here. They are ruinous places, I tell you. And I don't want no city punk givin' you any trouble."
"Okay."
"We'll be back in a moment!" said the sword in a crisp voice.
Tabitha walked off slowly. She kept along the streetsides, passing by folks every so often who all didn't pay attention to her. A horse-drawn cart would drive by. A barking stray dog, followed by kids in dirty shirts running and laughing raucously. Tabitha, though silent, was always keen and observant of everything around her. Derflinger was strapped to her back by a leather cord.
Derflinger had been in Tabitha's possession for months now, and she had learned some things about it. She knew the sword could 'see', could detect its surroundings, and it was in a sense, alive. Nothing from the books perused from the arcane libraries ever gave any clear information of the possibility of a thing like Derflinger. And it talked a lot too, often making crude remarks as well: one instance, complaining about the stench of donkeys, which almost caused some trouble between Tabitha and a merchant she was hitchhiking with once. So she knew that the sword was self-aware, could bask in pleasure when drawing blood, and like a plant or tree, it was in its own right a living being.
She didn't talk to it much, but it talked to her.
"So, miss Charlotte Helene de Orleans," Derflinger said in a rather low voice, just enough for her to hear. "You have never really elaborated to me what the purpose of our journey to Gallia is."
Tabitha did not answer. She continued walking, with her eyes down on the street.
Derflinger jumped in its sheath. "Come on, you're killing me with this suspense! Besides, I've already got an inkling on what the plan could be."
"Quiet. People listen."
Somehow, Tabitha could feel Derflinger 'looking' at her from beside her shoulder.
"Well listen," Derflinger said very softly.
"You're the lost princess of the Gallian royal house. I figured that much. But I've existed for way longer than most living people in this world at this point, so I'm sure I know some things, and this I know: Almost twenty decades ago, there were two Gallian princes, and when the time came for the old King to appoint his successor, instead of coronating his eldest son as the new ruler, it was the younger prince who was given the throne. This younger prince was brash, too impetuous, too reckless. Unfit to be a king.
"The younger prince murdered his older brother. Because the elder prince was so just, so benevolent and patient, that the elder prince did not even contest his right to the throne, his brother could not stand this despite everything."
"That younger prince is no other than the mad king, Joseph de Gallia." Derflinger said in a serious tone, "And I think, miss Charlotte Helene d'Orleans, after sixteen years, you are now coming home for vengeance."
"My name is not Charlotte. Not until I take that name back."
It was extremely rare for even Derflinger to get even a single complete out of the enigmatic girl, so this stunned him.
Derflinger jostled. "So it's true!" The sword tried hard to keep himself from bursting out.
"I'm not here to kill my uncle," Tabitha said very slowly. "I am going to rescue my mother."
"Well," Derflinger drew a long sigh and chuckled. "Then we still have a long way to go, my friend. We must prepare. Though I must advise you, Charlotte. I was going to tell you this sooner but I wasn't sure what sort of scheme you had planned in that head of yours. Now I know. You want to know what I think? This is a very perilous notion, and it seems to me you- we are ill-equipped to even get anywhere close to the Gallian palace in Lutece. I mean, are we going to storm through the citadel doors like a mighty blizzard and just fly away with your mum in tow?"
The girl was silent again. Derflinger took notice of this.
"You know what you have to do, but you don't know how, do you?" the sword said.
If Derflinger could smile, he would be grinning ear-to-ear. Everything about intrepid heroes and individuals was beautiful, and Derflinger admired these qualities. They are the beautiful, free souls of the world. And this girl, this fallen princess of Gallia, Charlotte Helene d'Orleans, she was courageous, hopeful and willing to go as far as it takes. Yet she was young, she still had a long way to go, and while her resolve was admirable, she lacked what it would take to go against an entire kingdom. Derflinger did not want to pity her, but he could not help but be sympathetic. Charlotte was one girl with little friends or allies, and without a proper plan to reach her mother which she had to save. But her resolve was strong, Derflinger would give Charlotte that.
They were hundreds of miles away from Tristania. So many enemies around them and so few people to call friends. They could get arrested in Gallia, robbed, or their identities blown and fail before they even came close to saving Charlotte's mother. Derflinger slowly figured out why Charlotte's mother was in danger - she could have been in captivity under the Mad King of Gallia all this time. And if Charlotte's mother was, then worse: she could be used to lure and control Charlotte into doing things she didn't want to do. Bad things.
Suddenly, Derflinger realized one thing: Charlotte was a Chevalier for a completely different reason. It was not from rendering a great service to Tristain, but to Gallia.
He knew already, from gut instinct or experience, likely both, that this was going to be one of those great moments where it would be just the heroine, her dragon, and her sword against a mountain of odds and a supervillain.
"Don't worry my friend," Derflinger said to Charlotte. "You can count on me. This is just the beginning and we'll figure something out."
Just then, Derflinger noticed that they had stopped moving. Tabitha was standing still.
In her walk, Tabitha had made a turn around a corner and was now along an empty street of the city. The late afternoon sun bathed the entire city in a mellow light. A young lady with a parasol was standing in front of her. She had a cheery countenance, and magenta-coloured hair with a stylishly ribboned, black rose fascinateur pinned to it; her black dress was lined with frills and feathers. She seemed like a fancy aristocrat.
The young lady spoke in a sweet voice.
"Hi!" the young lady chirped. "My name's Jeanette. I seem to be a little lost, ehehe~. It's my first time in this town, and I'm looking for someone. A noble, to be specific."
Tabitha continued to remain silent, keeping her shrouded head down, not looking up.
"I was hoping you could help me with that," the lady said, smiling sweetly, "because you are one, aren't you?"
Tabitha lifted her head up by an inch.
"No."
Oh, no, Derflinger inwardly thought. When you put it like that… not very convincing at all, Charlotte!
Tabitha stepped aside the person in front of her, and Tabitha's shoulders bumped slightly with her as she passed.
"Hey, rude!" Jeanette said. "Don't push me."
With a hand Jeanette poked the mysterious cloaked girl on the same arm. It was not much of a poke as it was a push, because the cloaked girl almost tripped.
"Hey, you're not gonna say anything?"
Tabitha continued to walk as if nothing happened. There were four of them, and she knew it was better to go. But she sensed another person step up behind her.
"Let me handle this, sister. Why don't you show us what's the big deal you're hiding?"
A hand reached out to grab Tabitha's cloaked head.
What happened next took only a split second, and it was done in a flash. Everyone watching the mysterious girl flinched. The guy who reached out to grab the woolen cloak of the girl found his hand frozen stiff inside a chunk of solid frost.
The mysterious girl had whirled around to execute this shocking move, but in the process her cloak had unveiled.
It revealed her distinct, Gallian blue hair.
Tabitha was now facing the four strangers. She felt exposed, as everything was under the light of the sun now.
The lady stepped forward again. "I'll be darned," Jeanette smiled mischievously as she folded up her umbrella. "It really is her."
When Tabitha saw all four of her assailants take out their weapons, she recognized the gravity of her situation quickly. The shortest and youngest looking boy held a mage's wand. Another guy who wore a Cavalier hat, positioned dangerously behind her left side, had a sharp sword which Tabitha detected could also be a wand. The man who tried to grab her was in front of her now; his face was tattooed with two red stripes going down his face, over his eyelids, and his short-cut hair was bleached white. He was bare-chested, wiry, and when he crushed the ice enveloping his right hand with a mighty fist, Tabitha knew this was serious.
Jeanette brandished a long, pitch-black dagger from her feathery sleeves and flipped it in her palm.
"Don't worry~. We're not going to hurt you. You're our captain, after all. Well… unless you give us trouble again."
The tattooed man smiled savagely. He spoke in a rugged tone. "Someone wants to see you again. Just come with us. We don't have to fight, but oh boy, I sure would enjoy that."
A voice from behind Tabitha, coming from the Cavalier-hat guy, also piped in. "Jacques, you moron, don't goad the captain! We just want to take her back and go."
"I don't think this is how we should go about this."
Tabitha glanced at the youngest looking boy. The blonde-haired boy had a tentative expression on his face. He spoke with a gentler voice than the rest of his companions.
The boy started to slowly put his two hands in front of him. "We're not bad people," the boy said, looking at Tabitha. "You know that. We're just asked to find someone. Someone named Charlotte. Or Tabitha, the other name she goes by as. And you've returned at last."
Derflinger finally popped up from his sheath. "Bloody impossible," he whispered. "How did they find us already, whoever these characters are? And why are they calling you 'captain'?! If your uncle has sent them after you…"
"The forest. Bandits survived."
"Right," Derflinger nudged Tabitha. "That doesn't explain how they found you so fast!"
"I was exiled. Return - not allowed." Tabitha breathed. She didn't look at Derflinger. "Just like Louise Francoise."
Tabitha muttered under her breath.
"Knights of Nord-Parterre. I was one."
As she looked at the four knight-mages, Tabitha recognized each one of them again. All servants of the Mad King, and that twisted lady-advisor of his. It was a macabre travesty to even call themselves knights at this point - they've become no different from mercenaries, the four mage siblings: Jeanette, Jacques, Bleu and Damien, the Knights of North Parterre. She never did like any of them. That was why she left for Tristain and never responded to any correspondence with all of them again.
Derflinger thought furiously. He didn't expect any of this to happen so soon. The only explanation could be that King Joseph had already been hunting for Charlotte way before they even set off through Gallia, otherwise it was impossible to spot a returning Gallian royal on such a short notice. Maybe King Joseph wanted Charlotte in captivity as well or worse. Charlotte might've been safer while in Tristain, but now they were in hostile territory. Charlotte was right, it was likely those bandits who survived from the forest went to report about a blue-haired girl who fought them, a mage - a noble. And she said that she was one of these rogues; the 'knights' of North Parterre…
"Never you mind!" Derflinger cried. "Mind over matter now, Charlotte."
"A talking sword?" Jeanette remarked. "This is going to be interesting."
The boy tried to dissuade his companions one more time. But the big Jacques grunted, "Damien! It's all the same - you know her. let's get this over with, and besides, she's a legend. Looks like she's not going to give in."
Jacques lunged at Tabitha with open hands to seize her. She took one step backwards, then Tabitha held forward her massive staff.
"Shear ice."
A row of jagged, opaque spikes broke up from the dry pavement, oriented at the assailant in front of her. The sharp ice had pebbles of dirt encrusted into it, as if it was mud that had flash-frozen and come up from underneath the street. To fall onto it would be fatal.
"Maceria!"
There was a crash. Suddenly there was a brown wall of rubble in front of Tabitha. Her frozen spikes met it, and there was a brittle collision which sent shards of ice and gravel all around.
Jacques, who had just attacked Tabitha flanked her. He grinned. In his left hand was a wand.
Tabitha narrowed her eyes, taking a fighting stance. She was facing four mages. Even if they were still line mages, it was not going to be easy taking them all on. By now, her former peers the Knights of North Parterre, they could already be triangle mages like her.
"You're good," Jacques laughed. "It's a shame you had to defect, we've been made to track you down for months by the Mad King!..."
"Icicle."
Tabitha wasted no time and cast another spell, and from the air condensed and shot forth a burst of narrow icicles forward. This time, the earth mage would have no time to dodge. Those frozen needles are faster than a gust of wind.
Suddenly, just before the icicles reached to impale themselves on the man, they dissolved mid-air. The earth mage was only showered by harmless droplets of water.
Tabitha glanced. It was the young boy Damien, who now had his wand aimed at her. Water mages could counter ice spells, Tabitha thought. That was only a fraction of the problem. There were two more mages…
Tabitha reacted instantly. Her hand went for the handle of her sword and Derflinger swung out from behind her in a wide arc.
She twisted, and braced. Derflinger's blade glinted under the sunlight, then there was a nasty metallic scraping.
The cavalier mage, Bleu had launched high through the air and attempted to land a kick behind Tabitha which would've knocked her out. When she pulled Derflinger out, she swung back and that was when the mage reacted and brought down his wand-sword to parry.
Tabitha sidestepped, and spun again. She held Derflinger almost perpendicular in front of her, as something sharp bit down on the blade again and dragged along its length jaggedly. The magenta-haired mage lady, Jeanette, flew past her at an inhuman speed. A gust of wind licked Tabitha's face as she parried, but she did not flinch.
Two wind mages. One water mage. One Earth mage.
Tabitha adjusted her footing slightly as she made a mental register of all this.
"We're heavily outnumbered!" Derflinger shouted.
"I know."
"You're good," Jeanette remarked. "Much better than most other rogue nobles we've hunted. Then again, you are the Chevalier de Nord-Parterre… I must say you seem to have lost a bit of your touch, though."
Jeanette flicked her black dagger again as she began to size up Tabitha.
Damien sighed. "I tried to say that we could've talked it down with her…"
"She's not going to fight until she passes out," Jeanette muttered. She glared at her young brother, then at the other two. "Damien, Jacques, Bleu. Let's crush her."
Jeanette and her fellow mages all poised to attack Tabitha simultaneously. The two wind mages zipped forward again with a boom of air, and the earth mage Jacques jogged at Tabitha before incantating a spell which made his body glow red, just like the bandit-mage from the forest; a resistance spell. With another step, the ground shuddered, and Tabitha sensed something pop up behind her. A golem. She knew. The young Damien remained seemingly hesitant, but prepared to support his siblings.
"Blizzard."
With no warning, there was a deep, almost muffled explosion. The whole block came up in a dense, smoke-like fog.
Jeanette couldn't see. None of the four of them could. The fog around them was thick and bitingly cold. But Jeanette saw the terracotta golem of her brother was already frozen solid. Jeanette was quickly alarmed that this could be a diversion. She rapidly dashed in a wind-propelled leap clear out of the fog, and sure enough, the Gallian exile was fast running away across the barren street. They chased after Tabitha.
Tabitha ran as hard as she could. She managed to breathe out a short incantation, which sent her jolting up in the air above a frail pillar of snow. Now she was running on the reddish tile rooftops of the city tenements. She glanced back, and to her surprise, Jeanette and the other wind mage, Bleu, was behind her. They were moving across the building tops with amazing ease, as if they were gliding through the air.
Derflinger shouted, still in Tabitha's hands. "We can't outrun them! Bloody wind mages! Only a matter of time before the whole of Compiegne city finds out what the hubbub is about, and there'll be griffin guards all over here!"
"I know."
Derflinger was shocked when Tabitha suddenly stopped in her tracks. Then he knew he was being swung very fast. Tabitha braked in her steps just before the edge of an apartment roof overlooking the city plaza. People were beginning to look up at the spectacle. Children stopped running and squinted hard at the stranger standing dangerously high up on the rooftop.
Tabitha whirled around and launched her riposte sharply, so when Jeanette was full speed after Tabitha's heels, she found herself headed straight to crash into her target with no way to slow down. Tabitha flipped her massive staff to behind her with one hand, and brought Derflinger forth in a downward slash.
Jeanette's breath hitched. She brought up her dagger hard to parry; it was all she could do to avoid being cut down. But then she found herself slipping. The tiles underneath her had filmed over, and she realized it was clear ice. When the sword came down on her dagger it was nearly knocked out of her hands. Then Tabitha struck her with a kick.
A cloud of frost burst in the air when Tabitha's kick connected with Jeanette, and there was a resounding whack. The wind mage was sent flying in the opposite direction, as if she had been flicked away. Jeanette tumbled onto a roof, stunned. Seeing this made her brother, Bleu stop for a moment in surprise.
"Good one!" Derflinger remarked.
"Good one," Bleu repeated, laughing. Then he sprang forward in his ally's place and flourished his sword at Tabitha.
Bleu was faster. His wand-sword was quick as a rapier, and snapped at Tabitha like a vicious serpent. She parried with Derflinger left and right. Steel against steel made a sickening, but almost musical tempo that made ears ring and eyes flinch. It was apparent Bleu was enjoying himself, despite the near lack of any expression in the blue-haired girl's visage, except for the miniscule frown on her face.
"En garde!" Bleu cried, and jabbed forward. His wand-sword snapped up like a harpoon.
Tabitha barely managed to deflect it this time, the blade scraping past Derflinger and her right cheek. She was getting tired. Her breathing was becoming uncontrolled, a fatal weakness of all wind mages. Tabitha pursed her lips tightly as she took one hop backward, coming right up to the very edge of the rooftops. Beneath her, hundreds of people were already crowding in the plaza, watching the spectacle.
Bleu kicked Tabitha in the knee. She slipped instantly on the rooftop edge, smashed her elbows on the tiles, then slid off. She crashed ceremoniously down into a wooden vendor's rack.
For what seemed like a long time, Tabitha felt lightheaded. Like she was floating onto the warm water of the Gallian pool, in Lutece palace, in her mother's bedroom. Then she wondered why only now was she remembering such a memory. Then blood. She could taste a bit of the salty, iron-tinged stuff on her lower lip. She knew it was blood because she'd already bled before from a fight. Her chin ached, she must've hit it on the roof as well and bit her lip when she fell off.
"...ilady! Milady!" A stubbled man in a straw hat was standing over her.
It was the same farmer who Tabitha had ridden with to this city. The farmer exclaimed. "Ah, bien! You're hurt, but not dead… what trouble is this?! Who are these people?!"
Tabitha reached up with a hand, groping the air for something to grab on.
She did not expect the farmer to squeeze her hand and pull her up. She was still badly dazed. The crowd was beginning to recede around the broken scene. The two wind mages now dropped off from the rooftop and landed onto the ground soundlessly, flanking Tabitha. The two other mages appeared from the crowd. Damien and Jacques slid through the townsfolk until they were before the wrecked mess of the farmer's stand and the Gallian girl.
Damien sighed, covering his eyes. "We've caused a scene again… this will be very, very bad…"
"She didn't really think she could get away from us, did she?"
Jacques cackled. Bleu was regarding the whole scene with half-open eyes. Jeanette was the only one with a disgruntled look.
Jeanette winced, as she clutched her right rib. Every breath was in agony, and her eyes were dark with anger. "That… bitch, ugh. Brimir's name, that was one hell of a kick. Oww!"
Tabitha slowly propped herself up with the farmer's help.
"Oh? You're still fighting?" Jeanette laughed, then winced again. "Maybe I was wrong, captain, you're really gonna fight 'til you drop."
"Hey!"
The farmer stepped forward in front of Tabitha. His voice was audibly shaking.
"W-Whatever bone you've got to pick with this lady here, that's enough!"
"Back off, old man. Unless you want to get hurt," Jacques barked.
The farmer swallowed a lump in his throat. It was pointless - he glanced back at the blue-haired girl whom he had taken with him on his cart, who had saved him from the bandits in the forest. She was a noble - not just any noble, but a good one. Yet he wasn't willing to die now! A commoner has no chance against mages! So where was this stupid heroism coming from?
The farmer thought maybe the young noble could sense the cowardice and fear in his face. It embarrassed him. But Tabitha gently pulled the man's arm back. There was perhaps a smile, a very small one, the farmer didn't know for sure, that formed briefly on the girl's face. Her sad blue eyes seemed to say, 'thank you for trying.'
Tabitha held her staff in front of her like a crutch. She whistled very softly.
Suddenly there was a strange sound from the sky.
It was a beast-like, throaty kind of sound. Not a roar, but a loud screeching like one from an eagle. From the sinking light of the horizon appeared a silhouette of something that was flying, flapping its wings. Something that was fast descending onto the plaza.
The apartment rooftop, from where only moments ago Tabitha had fought and fell down from, crumbled under the weight of the great beast that landed on it. For perched atop the building behind the Tabitha was now a blue rhyme dragon.
Since the beginning she had been teaching the intelligent dragon not to follow her everywhere and to learn to wait for her outside towns so that she could travel inconspicuously with commoners. And now, just in the nick of time, her familiar had arrived.
The mighty dragon bowed and craned its scaly neck left and right as it stared at the plaza with bright green eyes. It chewed its maw, then landed with a thud onto the street.
The crowd fled in all directions, but many people could not help but stare at the unbelievable sight. The farmer with Tabitha was trembling and frightened. Tabitha pushed him aside hard, sending the man tumbling onto the ground. A rubble boulder smashed against a snow wall which rose from the ground that protected them both.
The frozen wall only held enough to break apart the boulder hurled at them by Jacques, and just when the snow was about to tumble, the wind mage Bleu sliced through it.
Tabitha parried, but the moment she threw off Bleu, she realized Jeanette was already flying to run her through.
The dragon familiar lunged over to Tabitha aggressively to protect her. The wind mage dodged just as Tabitha fended her off. Their assailants began to fire away with spells at the dragon, hurling more rubble and concussive punches of wind at it. The rhyme dragon covered her master with her powerful wings. The rapidity of the fight was beginning to raise clouds of frost and dirt in the air.
"We can't withstand this," Derflinger yelled, "and you're badly hurt, Charlotte!"
In the next second, the ground beneath Tabitha liquefied. It had melted into water. Tabitha stared. The pool was becoming deeper - she turned her eyes at the blonde boy, the water mage Damien.
He was now holding some kind of trumpet instrument. He had already cast some sort of spell using the strange trumpet, as the boy held it dipped into the ground, also turning it to water. It was what turned into water the ground where Tabitha was standing. A trap - the reason why the boy had been trying to get her to stand still, talking her down from fighting. Very precocious, she thought, very clever.
For the first time, Tabitha found herself raising her voice.
"Run!"
Tabitha yelled at the farmer.
The level of emotion in her voice even surprised her a little, but of course, she figured, life-or-death situations tended to do that for everyone.
The man hesitated for a moment, his face drawn with apprehension; the noble girl had saved her life yet a second time. With no choice, he gave a grunt and began to scramble away from the water pool.
"Our situation is fast becoming inextricable, my friend!" Derflinger cried.
Tabitha muttered one more spell. And once again, a thick cloud of frost burst all over them.
"Sylphid."
The blue dragon crooned and drew its head towards Tabitha's face. Tabitha was leaning on her staff, clutching it in one arm, and holding derflinger with her right fist. She felt weak, as if death was beginning to wash over her. Death felt like sleep, she thought. She began to sheathe the sword. Derflinger was alarmed when he realized what she was doing.
"Charlotte! What are you doing? Get on the dragon already so we can fly!"
"No use."
Tabitha stared at the gash in her left arm. When the wind mage Jeanette flew at her, she had passed by Tabitha, slashing her with her shining black dagger.
Poison. Charlotte knew a lot about it.
She kissed the dragon Sylphid on the nose, and looked into her green luminous eyes.
"Fly. Please, find help."
Charlotte sat down in the pool of cold water, her feet trapped, defeated. Derflinger remained silent, now slung on her back. As the fog cleared, Charlotte found herself smiling as she watched her familiar fly away into the orange sky.
…
Twenty thousand soldiers of the Army of Tristania had begun their march northwest, departing the capital for the port-city of La Rochelle.
This was the largest military exercise they were practicing yet. A third of the army remained in Tristain where they were stationed, the rest followed the Grand Marquise and their General as they traveled to La Rochelle in marching order; it invigorated their spirits and prepared them for the harder marches they were to endure in the looming campaign against the Valliere Loyalists.
They also needed to resupply with much-needed provisions and equipment at the port, from where they could purchase Albionese imports to fill what could not be supplied by Tristanian cities.
The journey took three days, and they passed through dozens of villages and several communes in a flashy parade that awed every onlooker, and when they arrived at the city of La Rochelle that Saturday evening, they were met by the whole populace. And for the first time in history, the spires and the towers and the steeples of every building flew a new coat of arms instead of the late monarchy's pure white flag.
For the first time, the Tristanian fleur-de-lis bore out from a background flanked by royal blue and blood red. The fleur-de-lis was now rose pink, instead of light blue.
The army marched through the gates in full parade order to the hymns of the Anthem du Liberté, the spirited call of the new era that had begun in Tristain, created by an unnamed composer who was one of the commoners, for the commoners.
Of course, Napoleon knew its other name: Chant du Depart, and it was the hymn which sent his empire onwards. To depart, to spread, and to impose order and civilization over a world which so needed it.
The people chanted ardently.
"Vive le grande marquise! Vive le Tristain!"
"Salut Napoléon, championner de la masse publique!"
"Salut la grande marquise Louise Françoise de Vallière, l'espoir du Tristain!"
Everything was good. Napoleon was pleased at what he saw. He watched as his partner Louise, riding beside him at the head of the column on a white horse, smiled and waved at her people. He wondered how she felt - before all this, she was an outcast, a pariah with her peers at the Academy of Magic, whom everyone called the 'Zero'. She had once been a 'disgrace' to the Valliere family.
How times have changed! Napoleon indeed could not help but grin at the fruits of all his labor - and hers as well, of course. Louise had gone through her share of tribulations to get this far. Nothing was sweeter than success after a daunting struggle, Napoleon thought, and he enjoyed it all as much as Goethe or Beethoven cherished their masterpieces. Their walk through La Rochelle, a city which they had watched burn to the ground over ten months ago, was now rebuilding taller than ever and this time they entered it as heroes. Napoleon had personally supervised the creation of the tricolor flag, which the Tristanian Assembly and the public surprisingly liked.
It was like Berlin, Napoleon mused. He still had plenty of cities to visit in this world, and he knew it was still just the beginning for Louise herself, who still had to face the Vallieres.
Afterwards, having dinner at the mayor's residence, Napoleon, Louise and their entourage headed to the port and boarded a skyship which would take them to Albion.
…
At the military cantonment, in the assigned billets of the 3rd Chasseurs regiment, Lieutenant Fiorenzo Lepic was seated at a creaky table in the dimly-lit room of their apartment.
Most of the well-off officers and nobles, including Captain Martin and sous-lieutenant Guiche would have relatives or friends to lodge in with, or could afford a hotel to stay at night. Most of the soldiers stayed in their campus, sleeping in large repurposed apartment blocks, houses, and regular barracks in the 14th arrondissement. The reveille was at four o' clock sharp, and they trained for eight hours at least each day. When it got too hot during the day, they had lunch and break for two hours, and on other days, they drilled constantly. The light infantry often trained on the plains well into the evenings, and Lepic and his comrades watched them often when they were posted for mounted sentry duty.
Otherwise, life in the camps got frugal, boring, repetitive, and broken only by their antics which ranged from illegal escapades into the city to gamble in the casinos, drink, frolic in the brothels, go to the theatres, drink some more, buy food, cheat the commissariats, or engage in sports and raucous games.
Lepic, sergeant Andreossey and corporal Vermont continued playing cards. A private, a young fellow who couldn't have been older than eighteen, like their sous-lieutenant, was by the door with his eyes on the window, watching the corridor outside. The other chasseurs were sleeping. Some of them were practicing reading by the guttering light of a candle. Others smoked pipes to pass the time, despite it being against camp regulations.
"Keep your eyes open, Jules," Sergeant Andreossey reminded their lookout. "I tell you, if Colonel Mars is making rounds again and catches us we're dead meat."
The young trooper kept silent. The lieutenant was grinning evilly, as he lowered all his cards. The two officers begrudgingly pushed onto the table their little stacks of silver deniers.
"I am a poor man, I cannot afford to lose," Lepic insisted, pocketing the coins.
"Horseshit," Corporal Vermont laughed.
They started to gather up the cards again for another game when they noticed a shadow briefly flicker in the nearby window, overlooking the boulevard. Lepic did not bother, but corporal Vermont was curious enough to peek and see what it was. There was nobody on the terrace outside.
"Lieutenant! What in the devil is that?"
Lepic stared at Vermont, whose face was now practically against the window. Lepic and the sergeant stopped and tried to see what was going on outside as well.
Lieutenant Lepic squinted and tried to use his hands to shade away the glare of the full moon, but even so, the spectacle was terrifyingly clear.
There was something in the skies. They looked like birds. But then, a horrifying realization dawned.
Beasts. Hundreds of them were in the sky, soaring thousands of feet above the city. When they came under the moonlight, they cast frightening silhouettes alike to migrating geese. But they weren't birds; they were too big to be.
Dragons. Their wide, bony wings were easy to tell and they looked almost like bats from the height they were flying at. Not only dragons, but there were griffons and manticores as well, not so fast as the great reptilian beasts perhaps but still keeping with the ominous horde that formed a massive formation of riders.
Lepic and his two companions rushed out of their room, not saying another word, too stunned. Private Jules curiously watched them and could not help but follow, making their way down the building. They stepped out of the apartment gate and onto the curb.
The huge flock of dragons and griffins overhead continued to coast across the sky, only making eerie flapping sounds that were hardly audible from the ground. It was frightening how silent the spectacle was under such a bright moonlit night. Lepic saw something falling through the air flimsily like a feather. It looked like a letter. When it was close enough overhead, he leapt and grabbed it. He perused the paper. And even though it was dark, he could make out the printed poster titles on the sheet:
USURPER: FAMILIAR OF THE ZERO.
Above the print was an illustration, a caricature that was instantly recognizable to him. He knew how to read thanks to the nuns from his childhood monastery, and he had a copy of the National Gazette from three days ago: Napoleon was posing in front of the city hall with the mayor and administrators, and their faces were on the headlines. Lepic made no mistake, it was the exact same picture of Napoleon's face that was now slapped onto the slanderous leaflet.
More of the pamphlets fell around him, over their campus, like snow. A few seconds later, the cathedral bell rang.
Mayor Trevise was still in his nightgowns when he ran out of his quarters, nearly tripping on the way down to the hall, as the alarm bells from the cathedral alerted the entire city of a likely attack. He seized his mantle and put it on out of modesty, then went straight into his office. Within the next minute, a thundering of bootsteps came up to his door and Colonel Owen Foucard and several officers barged in to report.
Owen Foucard was panting furiously. With a calloused hand, he pushed out a crumpled piece of white paper.
"Propaganda!" He declared, having learned the meaning of the word from the shrewd general several times already during their interviews. Foucard was sure this was one of those.
Trevise snatched the paper, scrutinizing it. He reached for the lamp on this desk without taking his eyes off the leaflet, and an officer hastily turned up the gas for him. Another began lighting up the room.
"Those Valliere loyalists are about to incite an insurrection with this," Mayor Trevise cried.
One of the officers, a jowly old man, said, "we have the Internal Security gendarmes sweeping the streets and collecting the pamphlets wherever they land…"
"That won't be enough! In a few hours the whole city will be out and awake, if they aren't already from those bells!"
"There was no attack, thankfully, your Excellency…"
"They could have landed and infiltrated the palace; with such numbers, they could have possibly overrun one of the gates, or perhaps firebombed the High Quarters," another official added.
Mayor Trevise shook his head and put up a hand.
"A truce had been signed in La Fere only five days ago! All of that would be in violation of the truce, and if they tried that, Tristania would want nothing short of blood from every loyalist in the country." He shouted, "Colonel! Find out if there are any enemy presence within forty miles of the capital, and double- no, triple the number of patrols in the city. I want all of those cursed papers confiscated and out of public view!"
"Gad! That's going to be impossible." Owen Foucard retorted. "This isn't the only paper. There's three, four more versions spouting fantastic bullshit like you've never seen. I think there's millions of them all over, seems so. Now I'm beginning to think that old Giono was truly crazy for opening public schools to teach the people how to read."
"We have nothing but to try," Trevise said grimly. "Go. Do everything within your power to clean up this mess. The enemy has exploited a malicious loophole of the truce; We won't be able to stop the citizens from already picking up the papers, but perhaps I can arrange a speech, a reassurance to quell this brewing crisis…"
When the colonel and officials had poured out of the office, Trevise quickly rang the bell for his secretaries.
"Compose a letter, pronto!" Trevise dictated to his secretary as soon as the poor fellow had entered the room in a scamper. Mayor Trevise began in a serious tone. "To commander-in-chief, general Napoleon Bonaparte! Répondez s'il vous plaît!…"
…
…
The prince lay in his study, blankly staring at the brightly-lit crystal chandelier that hung from the crimson-papered ceiling.
Prince James Wales Tudor the Third was the last of his lineage, the only remaining Albionese royal on the throne now.
This bleak reality had left him despondent and often brooding ever since he returned to Hampton Palace in Londinium after that violent and ruinous war the Reconquistas brought. Curse the Reconquistas. Curse Oliver Cromwell. Prince Wales did not forget them all, and night after night he stirred, filled with a hatred that burned but more than that, a deep sadness that did not leave him. Most of all, he cursed himself.
Because of his incompetence, his cowardice, his weakness, all of the things that had happened, he felt responsible for them.
It was not like he could have stopped the Reconquistas, prevented the war and changed the lives of everyone had he simply behaved differently, and Prince Wales understood this at least. It was that right from the start, unless he was a completely different person, he knew there was not much he could've done. The Reconquistas were a product of the monarchy's excesses and now it happened that the Tudors became the ones to pay for it.
He had dawdled on these thoughts, wondering if he could have acted differently as prince. It was an agonizing cycle of regret day after day and he knew it was eating him from the inside. Yet, he also didn't want to run away as he always did, and he knew he needed to face the reality of things.
As soon as he had returned to power, he began to try his utmost in taking care of his country and people. He became a good prince. He put the royal treasury to good use, followed the advice of his wiser ministers, and placed himself into further schooling and study to educate himself so that he could make better decisions by himself without being completely dependent on his advisors again. He even pawned off the Wind Ruby, along the advice of the Tristanian general Bonaparte, and sacked many of his cabinet as they could not be trusted anymore.
Prince James Wales Tudor was tired. He felt alone. He sometimes wondered if he would be better off having died in the war, fighting, like his lover. He didn't because he had been dithered then. He would always be reminded of this. He had no brothers - they two had died in infancy. Most of his colleagues had emigrated to Gallia or to Germania due to the war. He didn't have any friends. He loved his cousin Henrietta, made a vow to her, and now she was gone. It was unbearable.
He closed his eyes. He needed sleep, he thought. There was no use in entertaining such devastating thoughts. He had to stay strong, be steadfast. He had to take care of his people. He had the whole of Albion and the Floating Isles relying on him for leadership. If he gave up now, the entire kingdom would be thrown into another civil conflict that would no doubt be bloody. The nobles would kill each for control of the Crown, now that it would be fair game without a real bloodline left to follow it. People would perish, and Albion would be no more. They would not survive another civil war. He could not fail again. Another failure would be the death of him and everything his father and his subjects had worked for and left to posterity. This was the final chance for him to reclaim the Tudor legacy.
The door clicked open. The chamberlain of the Hampton Palace, a tactful baron of the name Walther Cavendish, slowly allowed himself into the prince's study.
"Your Majesty," Chamberlain Cavendish announced. "Your guests have arrived."
Prince Wales did not answer.
"The Grand Marquise of Tristain and her entourage is waiting for you, Your Majesty…"
Now, the prince sat up. He was surprised. He glanced at the chamberlain finally.
"You should've just said so," Prince Wales laughed a little. "They are unexpectedly so early."
The prince expected a visiting Tristanian party tomorrow, he was excited when he received the letter signed by the Grand Marquise herself, but he was startled that they were here now. It was just in time for dinner though, so the palace can very much accommodate their surprise guests.
At the landing of the grand stairway, there was already a small huddle of people who were anticipating the prince's appearance. The Albionese chamberlain walked down first and made the introductions.
"His Majesty the Prince of Albion, son of James the Second, King of the Floating Isles, James Wales Tudor the Third receives you with welcome arms."
The prince appeared. He was dressed in a royal blue coat and a velvet cloak of a darker hue, trimmed with white ermine fur. He wore a light, ceremonial wreath on his head. He walked slowly to meet his guests, retaining a still face, with a slight polite smile on his lips. Chamberlain Cavendish stepped aside and bowed.
The chamberlain of the Tristanian party, the gray-haired Marquis of Touraine, now stepped forward to respond.
"Her Highness, the Grand Marquise, First Dignitary of Tristain, Louise Francoise le Blanc de la Valliere is grateful for your welcome, my prince."
The prince continued to smile a little. The two royals exchanged a brief nod to each other, in a sweet innocent-like manner which pleased the entourages of both parties. The prince now spoke, exchanged pleasantries with the visiting diplomats, and shook hands once again with the Second Dignitary general Napoleon Bonaparte. But all the while, he could not help but steal glances at the Grand Marquise of Tristain.
He was more stunned than anything. Was that really the Valliere girl? He had heard and even read about her from a few of the new Tristanian newspapers that managed to reach Albion. The poor girl who couldn't cast a spell to save her life, the youngest daughter of the most powerful family next to the royals in Tristain - who also got exiled - this was her. But he also knew that she was now the leader of Tristania, and a powerful mage with some kind of power that could obliterate entire sky fleets - but the Tristanians seemed to be very secretive about this.
The Grand Marquise had the same pretty rose-pink head of hair, tied up in a Gallian-style twist. Her stature seemed to have developed, and with proper posture, she actually seemed taller. She wore a modest, olive-green riding dress. Louise Francoise le Blanc de la Valliere had a serene countenance and spoke very little. Her sleepy eyes fluttered every time they met the prince. She smiled at him sweetly before the chamberlains led them to the dinner banquet.
The next several hours were spent leisurely dining, drinking and afterwards having articulate conversations with the opposite party. They exchanged gifts, news, political discourse and to a more coy degree, gossip, all the while smoking pipes and toasting to frothy Champanille wine which the Tristanians had brought with them. Napoleon compared it to the grandiose parties the Parisienne rich threw to curry his favor as the First Consul. For now, he relaxed. Napoleon was seated to the left of the Prince of Wales at the high table. The Grand Marquise was on the right, still quite silent.
The general and the prince had been conversing through a slew of topics tirelessly for the past hour now. "Despite our histories," Napoleon said pleasantly, "I must state that I am truly impressed by the quality and condition of Albionese naval, or should I say air forces."
The prince smiled and nodded. "It is the pride of the Albionese kingdom," he said, "and our source of strength and sovereignty. We've tamed the sky for the past five hundred years. The sea, not so much: Tristain and Gallia have fared much better than us in that respect. Something that my grandfather, King James Sr. used to say was that 'Without a decisive naval force we can do nothing definitive, and with it everything honorable and glorious.'"
Napoleon chuckled. "True, true. I should know."
"Unfortunately, now I'm not so sure about 'everything honorable and glorious'," Prince Wales shrugged. "But we're working on it. There will be change."
Napoleon took a sip of Albionese port wine. When he had placed his goblet back down, Prince Wales said, "I believe you are a commander of many great experiences. Your wisdom is unparalleled, as far as I can tell from all the news I've been hearing back from Tristain. Regularly, the merchants deliver to me a copy of Tristania's fabulous newspapers, and it is quite a feat to read of you, and the Army of Tristania under your leadership, score victory after victory against the powerful Valliere loyalists. How do you do it?"
"It is as my mother has said to me once, and it is true: experience is the best teacher of all."
"Is there anything comparable to this civil war? I mean, I'm assuming you've been deployed in some post prior, sir. But Tristain has never been in any real major conflicts until now. You have the aura of someone who has fought countless times. This experience you talk of… are you perhaps an exchange officer?"
Napoleon simply smiled.
"Oh, I could declaim of it, my saga, my great epic, but another time! It is far too long…" Napoleon muttered, clearing his throat.
Prince Wales was suddenly ashamed, realizing perhaps he had been too inquisitive. "Of course!"
"Mademoiselle Francoise de Valliere is still present, don't forget," Napoleon suggested in a whisper. "Care to entertain her? I shall excuse myself for a walk, in a moment."
The prince blushed slightly. Napoleon left the table, and so it was now only the Prince and the Grand Marquise still in dining.
Prince Wales slowly looked over to the pink-haired grand marquise. He realized Louise Francoise seemed to have dozed off: her arms were crossed over her chest and her head was tilted down so that her chin rested on her collarbone. She looked like a real princess.
He made his way over to her and tapped her shoulder gently. "Miss Louise Francoise," he whispered.
Louise stirred promptly. She looked around, then glanced up at the prince. She smiled a little at him.
"I didn't notice you there, my prince. Sorry, I was just counting something in my head, I wasn't sleeping at all," Louise laughed softly.
This reaction drew something peculiar out of Prince James Wales Tudor. He was quiet for a moment, and felt his heart skip a beat. What he noticed was that the grand marquise smelled like strawberries.
Louise squeezed his hand then and stood up.
"So, uh… do you want to, err…"
"Walk?"
"Yes," Prince Wales nodded, regaining his composure. "That's it. On the promenade."
Louise smiled. "I think that would be nice."
When they stepped outside of the marble palace and into the open terrace, they gazed out down at the valley. Below them from the height of the plateau, Londinium seemed so far yet so close, with its millions of lamp lights and lanterns, like fireflies wisping and twisting into the silhouettes of every boulevard, every quarter and arterial avenues of the Albionese capital.
A few ships and observation craft drifted above the city, and the never-ending night sky had more stars than Louise remembered she ever saw - the last time she had visited the floating country was during the war, and since it was the winter months then it was nearly always bleak, icy days with steel-gray skies that left everything under a dim colorless light. The death of her friend took away the warmth from anything the Silver Pentecostal brought to the land that year.
Louise kept her arms folded. The prince was beside her as they walked to the edge of the terrace rails, traipsing in silence for a long while.
"Louise Francoise," The prince said, "You've changed so much since the last time I saw you."
"Yes?"
"You have."
"I suppose so," Louise shrugged, giving a soft chuckle. "I mean, given everything? Who wouldn't?"
"You seemed awfully exhausted when you arrived," Prince Wales said, looking at her seriously.
"Did I? Ah, well, we disembarked at Dover this morning"—Louise yawned—"at three o' clock? Four, I guess. Then headed straight for our hotel here in Londinium, in time to dine with you, my prince." She gave an ironic sort of smile and laughed.
"That's horrific!"
"Ha. I've been through worse, believe me."
"Doesn't it wear you down, Louise Francoise? I hear you're ruling Tristania now and leading your subjects in the war against, well, your family and their allies…"
Louise looked away.
"Of course it's tiring. Some days I don't even want to get out of bed, and wish I was just an ordinary girl. I wondered how that'd be - a real 'Zero'. Eugh! But, well," Louise hummed. "I guess that's what being a ruler- no, a leader is about. Doing what needs to be done, even if you don't have the energy or will to continue so. That's why we do what we do…"
Louise stopped. She realized maybe she had been clinging onto his arm a bit too close now. Prince Wales was watching her with wide eyes. Now, Louise froze and stuttered. "W-Well, I mean- it is just something Napoleon said to me once, and I'm just paraphrasing."
Prince Wales smiled coolly. "That's very poignant of you, Miss Francoise de Valliere. I really do admire how you put it."
"Well, it is a responsibility," she stated. "Ever since the war with the Reconquista - oh, it seemed so long ago - my darned partner dragged me deep into military affairs, so now here I am. It's a really-eally long story. Goodness, I'm getting posted as a commander of the artillery in the army encamped in La Rochelle. I've fought in, let's see, Tarbes… then the campaign this spring. I leave the journalists to keep track of it. I think all the cannonfire is starting to dull my head," Louise giggled in a tired kind of way.
"I wonder what my best friend would think of me now," Louise then said quietly.
"I'm sure Henrietta would be proud of you."
Louise stayed silent. Prince Wales looked forward and thought. He said, "Napoleon too has helped me get back up after the war, and set me on the track to helping my people rebuild. He was right; you've got to put your people first, even if it means selling off all your riches and prestige. But thank Brimir, we're beginning to see the returns of our efforts. Albion is steadily recovering…"
"I'm just worried for you, Louise Francoise. If you need someone to confide with, you can count on me," Prince Wales offered.
"I will." Louise sighed softly. "Prince Wales?"
"Yes?"
"Do you miss Henrietta?"
"As much as you do."
"I have to win," Louise said in a very low voice. "For her. If I lose, someone else will take the Crown, and everything we've fought for. I've got to…"
"Stay the night, Louise Francoise," Prince Wales said to her. He held her hand.
Louise's cheeks flushed like roses. But Prince Wales assured, "at least you won't have to make the agonizing journey back down to wherever you and the general is lodging at. I enjoy your company."
"I-I am very grateful, my prince! But I'm afraid," Louise muttered sheepishly. "It's becoming too late. And well, I must go… I really can't…"
Prince Wales looked at her. Louise said, "I hope you won't resent me."
"Oh, I won't," he assured, chuckling. "I can tell you're a very busy little lady." Before Louise could say anything else, Prince Wales kissed her on the cheek. "I shall see you tomorrow then?"
"Of course!"
Louise turned around to leave. Before proceeding down the stairsteps to the boulevard, she took one more glance at the prince. James Wales was watching her. She gingerly waved at him, and immediately walked on, blushing madly upon realizing how girlish her gesture was.
A chasseur opened the berline door for her and when she got in, Napoleon was seated across from her. He was sniffing on something that he held pinched between his thumb and index finger, something sweet-smelling and looked like brown crumbly powder. He put away the snuff box and flicked his finger onto the leather armrest.
Napoleon drolly smiled at Louise.
"Your Majesty, that prince risks falling in love with you."
"Shut up, Napoleon!"
Louise moaned and buried her face in her hands.
"You think I can't tell? This is like a case when two children strike a relationship which is to grow into something a la romatico." Napoleon laughed. He leaned towards her. "Though, I couldn't tell if you were doing it on purpose but you have been elegant, my dear, is what you are. I couldn't figure if something radical had changed in Louise, and why you've been so reserved and poised this evening."
"Napoleon, I didn't get ANY sleep on the ship." Louise said slowly in a guttural tone. "I VOMITED my guts out in the middle of last night, from the starboard of the skyship. And then we traveled for EIGHT hours straight to Londinium. TELL ME WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO ACT LIKE SHORT OF DEAD?!"
She stared at the French Emperor furiously.
"But this is a good thing."
"IT'S NOT!"
"Explain, Louise. You're in favor of the Albionese prince. As far as I'm concerned, we're ahead of schedule in our to-do list."
This time, Louise curled up in seat, bringing her knees to her chest as she leant against the carriage window. Napoleon reclined, crossing his legs as he rested his eyes. A pleased grin traced his lips, but Louise knew Napoleon was awake and entertaining his thoughts, as his foot wriggled restlessly.
"So Prince Wales likes me. I'm glad… at least I know I'm not as unattractive of a noble as my sister Eleonore likes to say."
"Oh you're alright Louise. Most people simply have trash standards."
Something about the emperor's acerbic tone of remark caused Louise to laugh. She gave an exhausted breath and closed her eyes.
"The prince is unhappy, I can see it in his eyes. What do you think, Napoleon?"
"I think the same," Napoleon said. He yawned and pinched his lower lip pensively. "Playfulness aside, I do believe it will do the two of you good if you would keep the prince company. You can tell him the stories of your exploits, your glorious ascent to power, and all those things. Take this as a short vacation, Louise. The officers and I are already taking care of the dealings and purchasing the equipment and supplies we're taking back to Tristain. We can stay for two more days, there is no hurry."
Louise muttered impatiently. "Yes, yes. Whatever you say."
"I'm sure you understand how useful it is to befriend the future King of Albion. The floating isles are virtually our only ally at the moment."
Louise frowned at Napoleon.
"Eh, bien. I'm not implying you should take advantage of him," the emperor sighed. "I do not lie, Louise: this can very well be the start of a beautiful friendship, don't you think so?"
Napoleon shrugged. "Besides, no one knows how it is that with one glance, a girl can break through into a boy's heart," he said quietly.
Louise glanced at her partner and wondered. What did he mean by that? She was about to ask him a question when they were interrupted by the sharp opening of the carriage door. They had already arrived at the street where the hotel they were checking in was located.
The equerry of their entourage, a dark-haired female squire with blue eyes, peered inside. She found Napoleon and reported immediately:
"Very urgent news, sire!"
Napoleon rose from his seat and climbed out of the berline. Louise followed as well. Both of them were greeted by a handful of staff officers.
"Explain yourself!" Louise said to the fretful-looking lady.
The equerry answered. "Tristania had been attacked—"
"What?!"
"It's not an 'attack' per se, well, to be exact- " she produced something from her coat pocket and showed it to the Grand Marquise. Napoleon was the one who took it.
It was a folded piece of paper. Small enough that Napoleon believed it was a letter. It was slightly crumpled. He opened it.
"It's not an attack, Your Highness," the equerry looked at Louise again. "It's that the Loyalists have flown over the capital at around three past midnight today with several hundred griffons and dragons, and scattered thousands of these." She took out another folded leaflet and gave it to the grand marquise.
Louise hastily unfolded the paper and perused it with troubled eyes. Her eyes gradually widened in shock. Her face was printed on the leaflet, like it was some kind of wanted poster for a criminal. In the printed picture, she recognized herself wearing her old Academy uniform while standing in front of a marquee tent. She didn't know how they got this pose of her. From spies perhaps? There were often artists accompanying their camp which Napoleon commissioned to observe them for the newspapers. Louise shook her head.
Beneath the picture of her were printed the words, in bold font:
THE ZERO: EXILE OF THE VALLIERES
Her hand was shaking.
"Molto bene," Napoleon said nonchalantly. "I commend your punctuality, mademoiselle de Rosenberg. We're heading back to our quarters, send my secretary and the aides-de-camp then. You are dismissed."
The girl saluted, and hurried back into the headquarters.
Napoleon and Louise walked up a paved path, to the hotel, where their rooms were. Napoleon was silent, and Louise could not stand it. She walked ahead of him, and thought of what to say when Napoleon spoke up.
"Louise, if you could ruin your mother right now, would you?"
"What kind of question is that?"
Louise stared at him with her mouth half-open. But Napoleon was serious, and it made her stop.
"I don't really know," she breathed.
At that moment, Napoleon held up the leaflet he had in his hands and stuck it in front of Louise's face.
When he was sure she had seen the other leaflet, from the appalled look on her face, Napoleon asked again. "If you could completely devastate your mother's reputation and name, would you? You'll leave her unable to do the same to you again. This is an opportunity for you to retaliate, no?"
Louise was silent for a long while. They both continued into the hotel, up the stairs. When they reached their floor, Louise seemed to come up with a final answer.
"Let's do only the necessary to quell this… attack," Louise muttered darkly.
Napoleon nodded. As he put away the crumpled piece of paper, Louise looked up to him.
"As soon as the truce ends in four weeks, or when they openly move against our troops, we march to fight the Vallieres."
Napoleon smiled and nodded again. He would call his secretary Dieudonne and the rest of his retinue as soon as they returned, so he could begin dictating. When they entered their room, he went to his desk, picked up a quill and opened an inkwell. He started to pen a letter himself this time, later which he would have five more copies of written later.
'To Andre Giono.
'What is necessary to counter this effect that we are facing now, will require the kind of tactic we have discussed countless times. I trust that you know how to respond to this in a manner that I will find the most efficient. By some curious fluke in Fortune, it seems the Valliere Loyalist leadership has unwittingly found their way of using our own techniques against us…'
Napoleon was impressed. The Valliere Loyalists had taken advantage of the printing shop and paper mill in La Fere and used it to make their own daring attempt at active propaganda. He guessed that they were also monitoring the Tristanian newspapers; they copied the illustrations from them. That was probably where they drew their idea from. The simplicity of the leaflets meant that anyone easily understood it. He did not expect this at all, which was why Napoleon laughed.
'…This contretemps forces me to begin my political campaign prematurely, but I have determined it is as good a time as any. Beginning now: Employ your means of propaganda to turn the tides of favor.'
In the next twelve hours, five copies of the letter would be sent via pigeon post to La Rochelle to ensure the message arrives, then relayed to another set of birds and mailed to Andre Giono in the city of Tristania, at which point their counter operation to the surprise leaflet-propaganda of the Valliere Loyalists would begin. The earlier the letter reached his allies, the better. Every passing second that Giono and the administration in Tristania waited for his orders was a second that could turn one more of their citizens against them, if those wretched Loyalist pamphlets succeeded in corrupting them. No doubt that the capital administration was already doing their duty of suppressing the entire mess, but Giono must be notified to begin the overture now.
Tristain must find out and believe that Napoleon Bonaparte is a commoner now.
It would be a jarring revelation to his image, and it had very real consequences, but this was a sacrifice he needed in order to take the opportunity to loosen one of the caveats restricting him ever since he came to this world. It was time to begin making his origins gradually known.
Andre Giono's newspaper had already commented about the enigmatic general's status of low birth, of being a commoner, but only in passing and on select publications. Since not many people read the publications up until now, there weren't a whole lot of people who actually believed Napoleon was a real commoner. Most people actually thought he was one of the better aristocrats, just in between the extremes of society. To suddenly declare that he was an outright commoner of the rawest class would cause turmoil everywhere.
Exactly what he needed. It would be a controlled defusing of an ugly fact, like carefully tempering glass. Napoleon decided this confidently. In fact, he was exaggerating his being a 'commoner' more than what he actually was.
Publicizing Napoleon Bonaparte as nothing but an impoverished peasant before his military exploits changed everything would be taking the air out of any further attempt to attack his character, which was what the loyalists had just attempted to do over the capital. And he was going to do it himself.
They were going to scatter more leaflets of their own, this time intentionally by Andre Giono. His printing shops would quickly produce thousands of leaflets outing this information, which would be dispersed not just in Tristania first, but systematically throughout cities, towns and villages all over the country.
Saturating the city with their own leaflets was not going to stop the 'La Fere' leaflets - it was designed to blunt it, to add to it, to raise confusion - countering fire with fire. It was under such climates that Napoleon thrived. The Internal Security Army headed by Foucard would be cleaning up the wrong leaflets, and hopefully more people would find Andre Giono's pamphlets discovering Napoleon as a commoner than they would pick up the La Fere letters outing him as the cursed familiar of the Zero.
Tomorrow there would be a good, healthy riot in Tristania which the administration can then easily convert into powerful discourse, so that when the general returns, he can take control of it and permanently root himself in the spotlight.
Eventually the dirty truths would come out, but for now: make all people believe Napoleon is truly a commoner.
And he could tell that the timing was ripe; like fish, people would bite it readily.
It was a risky gambit, but one Napoleon knew he absolutely had to take and exploit.
The emperor finished the original copy of his order. He sighed. Time to play the populist again. Then he picked up a fresh, cream-colored paper and began to pen a new, different letter.
This time he wrote in his finest cursive, for it was a special letter to be addressed to a special person. Inwardly, Napoleon had to admit, she was very clever to have thought up such a spectacular way of character assassination. It was an ad hominem propaganda move of the finest class, cutthroat politicking that reminded him instantly of Paris, that the emperor wondered if there was any chance Lady Karin was actually a Parisienne.
.
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note: This was a complex chapter that needed a certain plot point solved, a point that took me three months to even cross. Nietzchian quite wrote himself into a corner with having Tabitha and Derflinger head for a completely opposite direction in the story. Ill health affected my writing some, but with this chapter all the subplots are beginning to come together again. Typos from previous chapters have also been corrected. Henrietta's death has REALLY changed some things from canon. Thank you for all the readers who continue to find this story interesting!