Gibraltar's Invitations (1)
Father and Mother were a match made in heaven. Differences in taste aside, even now they ranked among the top three most handsome and beautiful people in the kingdom if you lined them all up. Back in their prime, they were undoubtedly number one.
The cold-blooded handsome margrave of the borderlands. The pure, sunflower-like beauty. Even with beauties like Saint Geo the crown prince or Lady Carmen vying for the top spots, Father and Mother always stood ahead of them.
That was already a story from ten years before I was born.
An unofficial ranking in high society, but these days Mother had slipped from first to third place. Because she'd become one man's woman? No. Even as the incompetent king lusted after her, she remained as beautiful as ever.
Because bearing children had ruined her figure? No. Father had supported her through pregnancy and childcare with all his might by her side. His devotion had become the envy and jealousy of noblewomen across the kingdom.
The answer was one everyone knew. Age.
People age inevitably, and even the most beautiful flowers wilt over time. High society kept welcoming fresh new blooms, some of whom boasted they rivaled Mother from ten years ago.
'Competing in beauty with a beauty from the previous generation? That must sting their pride as women.'
On the flip side, holding her own against girls fifteen years her junior proved Mother was remarkable in her own right.
Yet Mother hardly trained her body. Blessed with natural gifts, she stayed beautiful, but she couldn't defy the flow of time forever.
Sword Masters were the exception. Father, past his mid-thirties, still looked like he did in his twenties thanks to mana’s blessings.
The talent of a Sword Master. And those who maintained their looks without being one. Strangely enough, suitors still lined up for both of them in droves.
Differences in fervor aside, if they were unmarried, they'd still be prime catches on the marriage market. Especially Father.
To put it bluntly: Mother was a flower past her prime, having borne three children. But Father, as a Sword Master, remained the top noble many young ladies in their early twenties dreamed of marrying—even if late teens found it a bit much.
Not a few had fallen in first love upon spotting him at a party, clinging to their fathers' hands at age seven. The capital was full of them.
Not just the capital—women everywhere grasped at any excuse to visit Gibraltar.
Under the guise of invitations.
And Mother's main duty in handling such matters for the family was—
"Burning through invitations like that is a waste of resources, Mother. Why not soak them in water, pulp them, and recycle?"
"You're right. Think of all the parchment we go through just writing refusals."
Replying to the flood of noble invitations pouring into the Gibraltar estate with polite rejections, then disposing of them.
"Father just tosses them without even opening."
Mother picked up one envelope. It was thick, clearly containing something inside.
"Do you know what Father said the day he first received an invitation from the count? It was one penned by Lady Carmen herself—the future queen."
"Burn it."
"No. He said nothing at all. Didn't even open it—just grabbed the envelope and chucked it straight into the fireplace."
"He held back because you were there. Normally, he'd shove it in a drawer."
"Maybe... but..."
Mother rubbed her forehead.
"Father doesn't care a whit about social niceties, so I have to handle the replies myself."
"You're doing more than enough as the lady of Gibraltar."
Father barely engaged in social activities, even by the loosest standards.
"Thanks to you, he at least observes noble etiquette at weddings, funerals, and other family events."
It all fell to Mother. Sending wreaths for weddings. Dispatching a vassal knight of noble birth as family proxy to pray for the deceased at funerals. Gifts for elderly nobles' sixtieth birthdays.
"You know the Gibraltar creed, right?"
"If it won't work, make it work."
"Yes. That was about Sword Masters, but I became the margrave's wife and lady of Gibraltar the same way."
Mother slit open the bulging envelope herself and turned it upside down over the table.
Thud.
"A brooch. Fine craftsmanship—looks like something made in the capital."
"From the Harmannia Viscount family, I believe?"
"...No?"
I knew. How could I not?
"The Harmannia Viscount has one daughter. Just turned sixteen, they say. She's being hailed as a freshly bloomed water lily."
The woman who, in ten years, would be renowned as the kingdom's greatest beauty—
"Charlotte Harmannia."
"Similar to your name, Mother."
"Embarrassing as it is, back then lots of girls were named after me and Father."
Charlotte. Charlotte. One letter's difference, but did the goddess of beauty bless every girl born with that name?
"Heard of her?"
"I think I caught wind of her when I was in the capital."
"Yes. Well, that girl..."
Mother frowned, fiddling with the gem-encrusted brooch.
"She's after your father. Time you knew that."
"Aiming for concubine?"
"Something like that."
"What's a sixteen-year-old lady lacking that she'd chase a man twice her age?"
"Better than becoming second wife to some pot-bellied, balding geezer in his fifties, no? Especially when Father looks young enough to pass for her brother."
"......."
I sipped my tea instead of answering.
"Plenty of women chase your father. Unlike me—worn out after three kids—he's still full of vigor."
"If you call yourself flawed, what does that make me, your son?"
"You know my flaws better than anyone."
"......."
"A filthy woman who betrayed the margrave once. All I have left is doing my best as your mother. Even if someday..."
Mother crumpled the letter in her fist.
"...he casts me aside."
"You don't hold back with a ten-year-old son, do you?"
"Are you just any ten-year-old? The kingdom's had prodigies showing adult-level talent since childhood for generations."
Like Father, a genius with the sword. Or Queen Carmen, a titan of high society.
"Few with your knack for scheming, though."
"They existed. They just stayed hidden until adulthood to avoid attention."
"And you?"
"Not enough time for that."
Ten years. The day I came of age and inherited the margrave title, Gibraltar would rebel.
Even if the margrave himself went rogue, forcing his son to drive a blade into a traitor's heart.
"On that note, please approve this."
"......."
"I trust you'll handle the young temptresses after Father."
"You want me scrapping with those little things?"
"You have to defend the marchioness's seat. For Father. For us kids."
"...Fine. How could I ignore you?"
Mother placed her hand on the plan I'd given her, then bowed her head.
"...But remember this. They're not just after your father."
Her eyes flashed.
"Some will target you too. You're..."
"The politically disinherited heir?"
"......."
"It's fine. I welcome the insults. In exchange..."
I picked out a few familiar envelopes from the pile before her.
"Invite these ones, please."
"Those are..."
"Know who they are?"
"...The ones who send letters nonstop, but get my personal refusals."
"Mother."
"...No beating around the bush, huh."
She already knew. Over ten years as marchioness, handling political ties, she'd glimpsed the malice aimed at the margrave.
"Let's test it. Guess. If you're right, invite them too—"
"Empire collaborators."
"......."
"Traitors in league with the Empire, or its assets. Families with imperial marriages."
Mother slumped over the desk.
"Throw a victory party for wiping out those three thousand orcs. Let the flies swarm."
Study.
"A party for killing a mere three thousand orcs?" Father scoffed at my plan for a "victory celebration" to lure in my swordsmanship tutor.
"You slaughtered three thousand orcs."
"Better to throw one because your little brother aced a quiz."
"That's a bigger achievement?"
"Isn't it?"
"Fair enough."
"Hah."
Father toyed with the "Victory Celebration Plan" stamped with Mother's seal.
"Those pumpkin-headed fools will come swarming, dolled up to the nines."
One thing to nail down first: Father was devoted to Mother heart and soul.
"Can't just blast off the jabbering mouths claiming love at first sight."
So he never fell for temptation—but they didn't see it that way.
"Understand. To them, you might be what they think Mother is to you."
"That's why we've hardly hosted celebrations here in Gibraltar. No need to even see their faces."
"If we were still royal guardians, maybe."
"Yeah. Once we commit to rebellion, we do it right."
Father gripped the envelopes I'd brought.
"These are the ones we need to connect with?"
"Yes."
"...Let me ask seriously."
He crossed his legs, straightening up.
"How do you know they're tied to the Empire?"
"Interrogating me?"
"Separate from your genius strategist talent acknowledged by Carmen—this reeks of—"
"A tip from Queen Carmen? That's what you're thinking."
Cutting him off drew open irritation.
"Worried she'll use a debt to steal time with you?"
"And that it'd trouble Charlotte. With a party, those brazen girls will flock, reeking of perfume."
"Don't worry. Not from Queen Carmen's—or Morgania's—networks."
We'd allied with Morgania, but I wasn't using them.
"Sword Master means you. Espionage means Morgania. Natural assumptions. But here I am, sharper than them both."
"Someone might mistake you for Carmen's son."
"What if I played consort to the queen—oof."
Thwack.
"Ho. Reacted before I even swung? Training grounds with me starting tomorrow."
"No thanks. And that's assault. You hit your son?"
"You crossed the line. Watch your mouth. One more word like that, and tomorrow it's you sparring with Noir. Guaranteed."
"Yes, sir."
The man who clenched his fist at a mere joke about his love for Mother, son or not.
"If you were an outsider, I'd have run you through the shoulder."
"Lucky my head's still attached. Ahem. Why these? Not 100% sure."
I was. Future knowledge was flawless; these nobles were corrupt traitors I'd exposed.
Treasonous scum. But that was foreknowledge—results, not proof.
"Just my guess they're imperial-linked."
"No confirmation?"
"Right. Common thread: bought titles with shady funds."
"...Morgania would've sniffed that out."
"Father. Know why I pushed allying with Morgania above all?"
"......."
Father slumped back, then stood, sighing with faint self-loathing toward the portraits of past Gibraltar margraves on the wall. A brief bow.
"Hah. Ending up like Morgania."
"We'll use everyone worth using. Imperial goods aren't half bad."
These letter-writers were suspiciously entwined with imperial trade networks.
"Father. If any escorts look strong, tell me. Probably a woman."
"Why?"
"Perfect cover to plant in the Gibraltar household, right? If I were the Empire scheming against us."
I raised my glass to him.
"They'd send a woman hungry to be your concubine. One any man would want to bed."
And she'd carry poison in her bosom.
"Hah. Think I'd fall for it?"
Father snorted, but I just swallowed my rising words with fizzy water.
'Your daughter did.'
Not the Empire's doing, but.
Noir Gibraltar. Became a Sword Master, yet slain by revolutionaries led by a princess.
Honey trap. Cause of death: syphilis.