Prologue - Part 3
Damn them.
Worse then the betrayal.
Damn them.
Worse then the humiliation of being had by that bastard Janglers and his men.
DAMN THEM!
Worse even than being captured, his ambitions ruined.
It was the waiting that was slowly sapping away the last of Terrance de Martou's will. The waiting while the Crown finally decided what was going to be done with him. Once again he rocked from side to side, trying pointlessly to loosen the binds tied tightly around his forearms. Around, and around, and around, again and again until he could barely feel his fingers.
He'd been like this for hours now, set into the interrogation chair, the walk here, his first human contact in what had to have been days.
They'd all been eager, the red and black garbed men, and their accompanying torturers, to extract what they wanted from him. He'd never let the former need use of the latter.
Terrance de Martou was not a brave man. And so, they had found no resistance, no tight lips in need of loosening. For days he'd hardly been let to rest as they questioned and prodded and coaxed him to infer and offer up every last thing he'd known, even things he hadn't known that he'd known.
And after they'd gotten everything, everything he could give them, everything they had come for, they had left as wordlessly as they'd arrived.
This was the final fate of Terrance de Martou, sympathizer to the glorious cause of the Reconquista and criminal to the Crown of Tristain. Criminal to Tristain… and pawn of Albion. He raged within himself. Did he have no dignity left to cling too?!
Now, he was alone again in the dark. Only his own wandering thoughts for company. A much more subtle torture than any hot brand or dull knife.
He'd never even allowed for himself to consider the possibility of his capture. To do so would have driven him from this path in fear. It would be the gallows for him surely. There was nothing else to be said for it. For his crimes he would face execution.
Terrance's head sagged low. How had it come to this?! It had all been so perfect. He would win back fame and title. He would be a gentleman with enough money to never again need his criminal connections, and well respected for his part in bringing the conflict to a close with so little spilled blood.
Now, Father and Grandfather would have killed him themselves if they'd known this would be the fate of their line, gambling away the family's fortunes, ignoring obligations and snubbing family allies, leaving mother to rot in that hovel of a manor until her last days.
He'd made back some of the money through his illicit dealings, but he could never regain the loss of reputation. Thinking about this only now as the hour of his demise neared.
Joining up with the Reconquistadors was supposed to have been his chance!
Now, it only meant he had something the Crown wanted to rip from his tongue before they killed him. He had cooperated, as they had asked, to spare himself pain. But he at least deserved to know his fate, to have it told to him, as a formality, nothing more.
It was all that Jangler's fault! He knew it! Using him like this, not letting him know what was really happening, planning to dispose of him all the while!
Damn him! Damn them!
Sinuses burned as hot tears came to his eyes. Could they not just kill him now and end his humiliation?
"D-D-damn you… you bastards… !"
The noise of grinding iron roused him from his thoughts, the sound as the heavy door grated against its stone frame causing his head to rise.
Footfalls, silence, and then…
"Good evening Mister de'Martou."
Was it evening? He could not say, having not seen the sun in… days? Weeks?
No wait, the voice of a woman?
He pondered, it sounded that way, but he could not yet see. The interrogation chair was turned to the far wall, and high backed so that the door remained out of view.
An interrogator could arrive, speak their business, and leave, without ever being seen by the subject save as a shadow cast by the lantern light. But he felt her, the presence of another so close beside him, and then, brushing past into his truncated field of vision.
De'Martou squinted in the dim lantern light. He'd grown quite good with faces over the years. Better than most. The need to know a man, or woman, on sight who went by more than one name was essential in his line of work.
So as it were, he did recognize the face that he was confronted by now with its severe expression and dirty blonde mop of boyish hair.
"You." He mouthed. "It's you!"
That little protestant wench who had smuggled her way into the good graces of the crown and joined the ranks of the Royal Guards. He'd seen her, often enough as she ran around on her errands, blindly investigating hither and thither, her and her musketeers.
After a while, he'd judged her no threat, a woman after all, chosen more to sit pleasingly beside the Princess as a token than for mind and sense.
What was her name now… for the life of her he could not recall… ah yes!
"Lieutenant… Lieutenant Agnes?" A commoner officer!
In the dark, the woman's lips twitched icily. "Captain, actually. A promotion was in order for my work on behalf of the Crown. And also, Chevalier de Milan as a matter of course."
"A Ch-chevalier?" Terrance choked out the word. That was to say… the crown had made a protestant, a commoner, a woman, a… a breeding sow, into a Knight?! It was too much, too much not to laugh, despite the pain the indiscretion might cause him.
Lieutenant… Captiain Agnes, Chevalie de Milan, held her smile. "I hope you find it amusing."
"Oh ho ho." de Martou rasped out, paunch, somewhat reduced by his confinement, jiggling merrily. "I must be losing my mind. A witch like you, a Knight?!" Given land and title and… and nobility.
NO! No matter what this woman was called, a commoner could no more become an aristocrat than a pig could be dressed in human clothing and called a man. At the command of the Queen it might be entertained, but always it would be known a farce.
Then why did it hurt so much, that his ill fortunes were her gains?
"Our Princess has many strange and wonderful ideas, wouldn't you agree?" Agnes mused as she turned away from him. "Of course, I don't agree with all of the one's she's become taken with, but what is the duty of a loyal servant but to voice her concerns to her highness and then trust in God?"
"Speaking of God as a protestant?" Terrance muttered darkly. "You have some nerve, don't you woman?"
"And you lack the sense to keep your mouth shut." She replied. "But I'm not here at this late date to give you a lecturing in loyalty to one's sovereign. In fact, just the opposite, there is a matter that has been overlooked in the madness of the past weeks. I do believe you might be of help bringing about its conclusion.
"A matter?" Terrance pondered, licking lips slowly. "And what matter, at this, as you put it 'late date', could possibly require my services?" They'd already taken from him every scrap and tidbit and small detail that had ever rattled through his brain. He was of no use now. There was nothing he knew that they did not already have at their disposal.
Or so he thought.
"Listen closely now." The Protestant said as she turned her head, casually examining one of the iron hooks, hung from the wall. "You may have been so foolish as never to have realized your roll in the whole of things, but that is not an excuse that will save you from the noose."
"If it were up to me, you'd be hung by the neck until dead already. But it is not up to me. Now then, there is a sensitive political matter, it is not so pressing a thing really, but it has been decided that if you cooperate fully, your sentence will be commuted."
That got his attention. Terrance licked dry lips. "A pardon?"
Now it was Agnes' turn to laugh. "You'd like that very much I'm sure. But no. Ten years hard labor, and life in prison on charges of smuggling. It will be an ignominious end to you, but if you survive the first decade, as a nobleman, you might live out the reast in some semblance of modest comfort."
Not death… prison for life…
'What could I possible have?' What could they possible want?! Was this a last joke on the part of the Crown?
His silence was interpreted as disinterest by the cold blooded she-wolf they'd sent to mock him. "If you do not wish to save yourself, then I shall take my leave now and…"
"No!" He sensed opportunity slipping through his fingers. "No… I… I am… that is to say… How could I be of, ah, of service? What do you need to know?"
And like that he realized, without even the threat of violence, she had him.
Head tilted, the newly minted Chevalier wrinkled her nose as she looked him over. "Not what you know,who you know. Your contacts in Tristain are being rounded up. But those in Gallia and Germania are beyond our reach and have gone to ground. You'll know how to contact them, I'm sure, your buyers."
"Buyers? Yes… buyers." de'Martou whispered a small prayer under his breath. "Which buyers might you be interested in?"
And then a shiver at the small, quiet voice that whispered into his ear, a weight like a hummingbird lighting onto his shoulder. He turned his head to look, he could not help but look!
And found… found… Founder…
"A Pixie?"
The doll like creature, resting lightly on his shoulder, glaring hatefully at him. So much like the other little dolls he'd trafficked just weeks ago. Delightful little creatures, sure to garner interest from the right clients.
But this one was so different from those ethereal little girls. Bigger for one, he was sure, figure both leaner and fuller, like that of a young woman rather than a child, and brandishing in her hand a needle like a miniscule saber, testing its point with one, nearly invisibly small fingertip.
"A knight." The girl said quietly. "Good day, Mister de'Martou. You can't imagine how much I've been wanting to talk to you." de'Martou watched as the girl took her needle, and touched it to the skin just beneath his left eye, allowing him to feel its sharpness for himself. "I would like to know what you've done with my sisters."
+++
"Industrialization, standardization, and mobilization, these are the essential tenants that Tristain must adopt if she is to overcome her deficiency in war fighting ability against the Kingdom of Albion. You've already seen the first step being deployed, the design and construction of the new factory machines and furnaces."
Fujioka Katsuo, Mortimer, Lord Mortimer, First Lord of Gaddan, and by dint of skill and more than a little luck, War Leader of the Faerie Races in the dangerously real world of Halkegenia, looked up from the document he was perusing to gauge the faces of his fellows.
On his left, General Belgen de Gramont, Supreme Commander of the ground forces of the Kingdom of Tristain. A tall, lank, and unusually foppish man who much resembled his youngest son. Appearances hid a keen and observant military mind, and a wealth of practical knowledge, that Mortimer had grown to greatly respect during their time together. Along with a certain way of viewing things, that was not always as expected.
To his right, was Count Eren La Ramee, Equally Supreme Commander of Tristain's Navy and equally acknowledged as an experienced, albeit often uninspired man, lacking the unconventional streak of the General sitting opposite. Impressively mustachioed, and dressed in the uniform of a Flag Officer.
Finally, there was Mortimer himself, or rather, Fujioka Katsuo. Thirty years old, if he counted the time they had been here in Halkegenia, albeit in a body that would get him mistaken for a much younger man. Shoulder length red hair, blood-red eyes, and severe features that he had been told did not suit his real world self at all.
Mortimer, who had, almost overnight, found himself dubbed a 'Tactical Genius' by his allies and his enemies alike. A title that surprised no one more than Mortimer himself. He had simply done what came naturally, detached himself, drawn on his historical knowledge, calculated, and executed, as he always had when faced with something unpleasant.
His title was also one that came with a good deal of benefit and danger. The prestige and clout, naturally, but also, the resentment and hostility. A hand probed at his tender flank.
He could not forget that Albion thought highly of him at least, highly enough to go to lengths to have him assassinated and his body delivered to Reconquista, likely for zombification. He didn't know whether to be honored or horrified.
The danger to his life also explained the last person in the room, hovering over him like his own shadow. Slight, silver haired, with skin as pallid and eyes as blood red as his own. Lydia, Commander of the Salamander Knights, his personal guard contingent, and one of the most superb swordswomen among the races of ALfheim.
For all of that, today's venue was not a particularly auspicious one. Set in a meeting room on the second floor of the Champ de Mars HQ building, windows overlooking ranks of wooden barracks and the fields where musketeer formations were hard at work being drilled.
The barks of sergeants carried as far as the window, wafting on the last of the spring breeze.
Looking up from their own documents, translations drawn up by one of Mortimer's staff, his own command of the Tristanian written language was still quite rubbish, and he didn't care to make either man suffer through his handwriting or poorly written translation. It appeared that the Fae's gift of tongues did not extend as far as the written word.
Mortimer gauged the two men carefully, awaiting their reply. It was La Ramee who answered first, tossing his stack of papers back onto the dark, polished conference table. "You say that, Lord Mortimer, but this seems, how should I put it… overly ambitious?"
Mortimer placed his elbows on the table. "You mean to say frivolous, I'm sure." He was under no illusion about what he was requesting.
"We're going to war with Albion, a Kingdom of unassailable positional advantage, and you occupy yourself with uniforms?" La Ramee shook his head.
"I do like these sketches though." Belgen supplied with a whimsical smile. "I don't suppose these are your doing?" He looked to Mortimer, lifting an illustration of the proposed foot soldier's uniform, standard cut, a very martial and functional looking affair shown front and back. Its creator had even taken to paints to color the illustration in olive drab.
Mortimer sighed heavily. "No, those would be the product of Lydia's imagination."
"My Lord!" His guard Captain looked betrayed.
"Eh? I'd rate the work as not half bad." Belgen mused with a small wink to Lydia's open displeasure.
"I… I was aiming for utility." Lydia grumbled.
"Your sense of fashion aside, General Gramont." Mortimer said coolly. "There is a good a time as any to propose a standard uniform. To my knowledge, the raising of the current Royal Army will be unprecedented in the history of Tristain." His comment garnered the full attention of both men. "If I am not mistaken, this will be the first time a standing army has been raised singularly beneath the Crown."
"That's right enough Lad." General Gramont admitted. "I think we were both in the room when that was declared."
"Though I don't think our Fair Princess thought it through. The Old Families are howling for blood over it." La Ramee muttered.
In previous times, when a call to arms had been made by the Crown, each Noble family had been instructed to raise levies, volunteer for service, or hire Free Companies that would then be placed at their pleasure into the service of the Crown.
As the Nobility owed fealty to the Royal Family, the forces of the Nobility were to be considered a national army in times of war. This was in many ways an extension of the previous feudal system where Nobility was conferred as an extension of governance and military service.
Were that it were so simple. There were many complications to this method of raising an army, not the least of which was the proliferation of Mercenaries.
Put simply, the art of war was one that demanded constant honing. And the men, commoner and mage alike, who made a career of such things, were easily worth the money of their hiring.
However, most Kingdom's were not so wealthy as to keep such men in times of peace, instead favoring the smaller garrison armies such as those that manned Tristain's border Fortresses and roadway houses.
The solution was freelancers, sell swords, mercenaries who had an unfortunate tendency of not leaving once the fighting was ended and their services no longer required. They were frequently more trouble than they were worth, eating up vast swaths of resources to remain on the march, and leaving nothing but ruin in their path.
In Earth's own history, there had been times in the early modern period where the mercenary armies had roamed parts of Europe almost unchecked
Even when the Free Companies worked as intended, they brought other complications. An eclectic mix of equipment for one, and an equally mixed level of quality, ranging from elite units under experienced commanders, to barely organized mobs.
As national identities developed, surpluses grew, and governments centralized, the tendency became to replace the mercenary companies with standing national armies manned by professional officers and conscript soldiers.
The armies were paid by the Crown directly, rather than through funds raised by a Noble Lord, and were thus considered more politically reliable than the mercenaries they replaced. The men were raised up from within the country and so were likelier to be loyal to their nation, and most, with the exception of officers, were not career soldiers and would return to a productive civilian life when their service was concluded.
In addition, the armies were supplied by the government, allowing standardization of equipment, and thus training, drill, and logistics, all essential to create the sort of disciplined and orderly force that would be needed to recapture Albion without burning what was left to the ground.
Halkegenia found itself sitting on the cusp of such a changeover, from the Free Companies to professional, national armies. This had been true even before the Fae had arrived. Mortimer intended for Tristain to ride ahead of the curve.
"This is just the first step in standardization." Mortimer explained. "A single uniform, modified where necessary, to be worn by all regiments. Ideally, we'll be able to issue every foot soldier with basic equipment of the same pattern as well."
"Yes." Admiral La Ramee returned to reading his notes. "One standard uniform coat, two standard uniforms, one pair of boots, one tarpaulin and… three full sets of undergarments?"
"As I said," Mortimer sighed, "It might appear frivolous. But a standard uniform that must be kept in form helps to maintain formation discipline. Having a replacement on hand removes any excuse for slovenly appearance and means that pests like lice can be regularly purged in the laundry. A good canvas tarp or blanket can be the difference between staying dry and warm or succumbing to sickness in the rain, and of course, I'm sure General Gramont can speak to the importance of proper, clean, foot wraps on a long march."
Belgen winced visible as he rubbed at his good leg. "Well, I can certainly vouch for that." The old General admitted. "And proper uniforms can make or break military discipline… We'll have to cloth and equip them anyway, so I suppose it's worth the effort on that merit. Though on the matter of equipment, I'm more concerned with armament, and by extension, strategy." Belgen tapped a finger against the surface of the table. "I confess, I'm still leery of these formations."
"If I may ask, whatever for?" Mortimer gathered his hands on the table. "You've seen the rate of fire and range of the rifles using the new ammunition. I thought that we'd settled this?" He pondered if he had missed something.
Contrary to popular perception, Mortimer knew that he was not an experienced field commander, he had met with some success so far, but there was nothing he valued more than the input of senior officers like General Gramont and Admiral La Ramee. Conventional wisdom was most often an invaluable resource, so long as the reasons for those conventions were kept in mind.
The problem was, by conventional wisdom, Prince Wales should have been dead, and Tristain should have been under attack by now as Albion launched its invasion, most likely taking advantage of the sparse settlements and clearings to the north of the Capital to make their initial landfall before advancing for a decapitation strike.
"Aye, and it was an impressive display." Belgen nodded earnestly. "What I wouldn't have given for a company of them during the last Gallian border skirmish. Which is also the problem…"
Mortimer closed his eyes and breathed out. "We're asking for rather more than a company."
Another bob of the old General's head. Reaching up to play out a lock of gray-blonde hair. "It's one thing to keep some of these riflemen on hand. But nearly twenty thousand is more than a few rifleers."
In fact, it was approximately half of the total commoner force that was expected to be assembled. Combined with artillery crews for the new cannons, pikemen, scout and mage cavalry, the mage foot squads, Fae volunteers, and the mercenary auxiliaries, they accounted for nearly two fifths of the proposed National Army's combat strength, an increase of four fold in number when compared with the traditional mage, shot, and pike formations of the continent.
The emphasis on the commoner formations was indeed unusual, as was their employment as a primary arm of combined arms strategy rather than as a harassment force or living bulwarks to protect the Mage formations who were viewed as the true striking power of the army. Commoners, no matter training or armament, were not considered much compared to the mages that they served under, only of value en mass and when supported by magic users.
"And of course, there will be convincing the rest of the General Staff." La Ramee chimed in.
Mortimer grimaced, another matter entirely. Men like de Pointier, General Gramont's appointed second in command. Brave, loyal, and utterly set in their ways. It had been one thing to get them behind a mad plan for survival. Now however, they felt quite comfortable settling back into their old ways. They'd fight change every chance they got, especially anything that reduced the glory of armed service going to the aristocracy.
He had some ideas about that and was about to comment when there came a knock at the door.
"Did someone remember to order lunch?" General Gramont looked between his two fellows and Lydia.
The Salamander swordswoman frowned, hand lightly touching upon her sword as she went to answer the door. Peeking out, she spoke to someone standing in the hall.
"Pardon?"
All three men grew alert at once. 'Pardon.' One of those words that one never wanted to hear. It could be code for anything really.
Lydia turned around, expression… bemused. She was briefly lost in thought before at last coming to a decision. "My Lord, it appears that you have a… I suppose you could say we have guests awaiting downstairs…"
"Guests?" General Gramont frowned. "Was anything more said than guests?"
'Guests.' A word almost as loaded as 'Pardon'.
"I think that it would be best," Lydia said very diplomatically, "That you see for yourselves. They're waiting now in the foyer."
Not like Lydia to be so vague, Mortimer stroked his chin. Which meant it was probably something quite atypical.
Whether Belgen noticed or cared, curiosity had already gotten the better of him. "Well then, Gents?"
A break couldn't possible hurt. Mortimer supposed as he followed after the General. He only grew more curious as they passed staff and officers muttering uncomfortably, and at last came to a cordon of guards looking, not ill at ease, but almost put at a loss by something. In any case, they were happy to allow the trio of military strategists and Lydia to pass.
"Just… keep an open mind, my Lord." Lydia whispered in his ear as they made for the stairs. And what could that possibly mean? Perhaps Sakuya was right, perhaps he was just that terrible at reading peo…
This wasn't right. He thought as they reached the second floor landing overlooking the foyer. For one, the Champ de Mars HQ was quite the martial institution, its halls solemn and well-kept, and most oft empty save at times of peak activity. And certainly, it was against military conduct to admit one's animal familiar.
And yet, at that very moment, the fluttering of wings was the loudest noise in the hall, as feathered and chitinous shapes lined the balconies and tops of cabinets. Shapes that elicited a distinct feeling of familiarity.
'Dracos Teranus Minor, and Vespia Vespia Majorus.' Mortimar paused the names came unbidden to his mind, tidbits absorbed in reports some time and some place else. In other words, Feathered Dragons, and Willow Wasps, among other, small, flying mobs.
Not familiars at all… Only then did his eyes pick out the small shapes, sitting atop the mobs, or moving between them, like large insects, or hummingbirds, until one took flight, silhouetted like a Faerie in miniature.
"What the blazes." General Gramont growled. "Listen here! What is the meaning of this!"
The chattering, chirps, and what Mortimer only recognized now as tiny, whispered voices, fell silent as one. Replaced by a single surprisingly loud and clear voice.
"Pardon us!"
Mortimer looked about at the sound of the voice as much as either Tristanian. Lydia, however, seemed to already have figured it out, pointing with a wane smile.
"Down here!"
The voice, coming from a table at the middle of the Foyer, from a miniscule figure much too small to reasonably contain it, looking right at them. All things considered, the Tristanians took the sight remarkably well.
"Eren." Belgen muttered, rubbing slowly at his eyes. "Tell me. Do you see this?"
"I do believe so." La Ramee admitted.
"Oh, good. I thought I was finally going mad."
"They asked to speak with you, apparently." Lydia informed Mortimer as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "They were quite insistent with the Guards, and well… Can you imagine someone trying to stop them?"
Mortimer felt the hundreds of big, curious eyes looking out from young, girlish faces. Despite the crude armor adorning their small bodies, and the miniscule spears and swords that they prominently brandished, it was hard to see them in an ill light.
Like an army of mouse children. So long as they were doing no harm, he supposed anyone with a heart would be reluctant to dislodge them.
"May I?" Mortimer gestured to Admiral La Ramee and General Gramont, the elder men swiftly granting him their blessing to step forward as spokesman. "I am Lord Mortimer, First Lord of Gaddan, I was told I was asked for by name."
The chattering rose again, and then fell silent as the girl on the table raised her hand. Interesting, then the others deferred to her?
Mortimer squinted. Without her helm, she was golden haired, with bright blue eyes and serious set to her face, as if her default expression was an irritated frown. Beneath black chitin armor she wore a small patchwork dress of yellow and red. She stood calmly, arms crossed, waiting.
When she heard Mortimer identify himself, she nodded. "Good day, Lord Mortimer, it is my honor to meet with the Lord of the Fire Fae."
"And a good morning to you, Miss…"
"Kigiku." The girl supplied, spreading amber wings to hover at eye height. "Kigiku, Eldest Knight of Tarbes Garden. You are the supreme Leader of the Fae Forces protecting ALfheim and Tristain, correct?"
Mortimer's brow rose, looking back over his shoulder, he was met by curious nods. Of course, it was the truth, the Fae Auxiliaries fell under his singular command for the time being. "That is correct." Mortimer kept his expression composed.
The girl nodded thoughtfully. "Lord Mortimer of the Salamanders, we have come with the blessing of our Eldest Sister Hinagiku, Shaman of Tarbes Garden, and Elder Sister Botan, Knight of Tarbes Garden. Before you are the Eldest Knights of the Twenty Gardens of ALfheim."
"And to what purpose, might I ask?" Mortimer paused to sweep the room, at a guess, around four hundred he would suppose. Not all were mounted, most had come only by themselves, or else left their mounts outside. Watching from high vantages or clinging easily to the walls. Like an army of teenaged, armored, hornet girls in miniature.
"We…" The pixie girl balled her fists. "We wish to pledge ourselves, to fight for our homes!"
Mortimer rocked back. Well then, this was… unexpected.
"We decided after Botan-chan returned to us with some of our lost sisters and told us of what she had learned and seen. And Hinagiku-sama has spoken with Lady Sakuya and Princess Henrietta on this matter on many occasions. We are to be treated as Fae of ALfheim, and the sanctity of our Gardens and shoots honored. Thanks to that, we can live safely. But we will not take this privilege and give nothing for it!"
It was hard to believe so much force could exist inside of a body so small.
"The world is dangerous for our kind and our lives are very difficult. All that we have are our sisters and our Gardens. And to know that there are people who wish to destroy our homes, even Mother Yggdrasil if given the chance…" A furious shake of the head. "The small lives have not forgotten the purpose of our existence!"
Without so much as a word from Lord Mortimer, the Pixie settled back to the surface of the table, and with a small, whispered prayer, folded herself into a bow. "Please, Mortimer-sama. Though the Fae have long split from us, we are still sisters… help us to protect our homes."
The room fell hushed. There was nothing more to be said. Or so it seemed.
"It is a generous offer." Mortimer began slowly. How to say this… he did not think of himself as a callous man. "It would have to be agreed upon by the other Lords…"
"Lady Sakuya has already given us her blessing." Kigiku said.
"Sakuya?" Mortimer grimaced. Now that was hard to believe.
"You may see us as children." The night fluttered her wings in agitation. "That isn't fair, Mortimer-sama, we are grown Knights, we understand what it is to fight and die for the sake of others. Sakuya-sama understands this, though it took time for Hinagiku-sama to convince her. We do not ask your permission Lord Mortimer, only your help."
In other words, they would do this anyway, and there was nothing that any human or Fae could do to stop them. All the stubbornness of a teenager crammed into that miniscule body. But… He'd read the reports about the Pixie garden at Tarbes, and of the Knight who had been so essential in spying on the conspirators. What if…
The stalemate at last drove Admiral La Ramee to action. "As Lord Mortimer has said, Miss Kigiku, your offer is very generous. But what service can you and your kin serve in battle…"
"No. We can use this." Mortimer interrupted.
"Lord Mortimer!" La Ramee began to protest.
Turning back to the waiting Pixie. "Miss Kigiku, you speak for all of your sisters here?"
"As Eldest Knight." She swore.
"If we accept your offer, can I be assured of your obedience? You will have to obey orders to the letter and accept the responsibility of soldiers." But if this worked…
The small knight answered wordlessly, placing a fist to her chest, and giving a small bow, wings fluttering in sympathy. "For our Mother, to our dying breath, Mortimer-sama."
Mortimer nodded slowly, sharing a look briefly with Lydia. His chief guard looked far from certain, but also, far from stopping him.
"I make no promises, but I would like to tentatively accept your offer." Lord Mortimer said with growing confidence. He could see the possibilities unfolding before his eyes. He turned to general Gramont and Admiral La Ramee.
"Gentleman, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
"Quite lad!" General Gramont declared before assuming a serious posture. "But, all this talk about uniforms we were just having. I have to ask. Where are we supposed to get over a thousand tiny pairs of panties.?" Said in all seriousness and without a hint of humor.
The four hundred odd collected Pixies stared on in complete silence.
Mortimer reached up to rub his temples slowly, he was just about to say something when Eren silenced him. "No no, Lord Mortimer." La Ramee turned to the still quite contemplative General Gramont. "Let him have this. It is just how his mind works."