"Explain this to me again," Coilthraum Indeliblis says, the dragon's very tailtip thumping on its hoard, dislodging trickles of antique coinage.
The line of porcelain-faced figures standing at attention in front of the hoard silently turn their gazes to the central figure of their lineup, steel limbs most scuffed, wearing a battered tricorn hat.
"Certainly, Miss," their commander says tonelessly. "This one—"
"Ahem," Coilthraum says. The doll pauses.
"If this one may," it says. "These ones' inability to stop referring to your draconic splendour as Miss is illustrative of the problem."
"Combat dolls are implacable, they said," Coilthraum mutters. "Combat dolls are fearless. Combat dolls—"
"These ones are implacable and fearless," the doll says. "And appreciate being taken in and assigned purpose after...what happened to our Miss."
"I have regrets," Coilthraum snarls. "Explain to me again."
"We advanced through the forest," the doll commander says, eyes blank and black and staring. "We were ambushed by the forces of the Glasswitch—"
"Why has adopting you made the Glasswitch set on fighting me?" the dragon says plaintively, talons flexing. It's a well-worn complaint; the dolls, as always, remain silent, the ineffable complexities of witchly motivation outside their purview. Coilthraum sighs, gusty and smoke-scented. "No, no. Continue."
"We advanced through the forest. The Glasswitch's forces ambushed us. We fought." Blank black eyes gleam, as if with pride; possibly just some minute shift of posture, and a trick of the light on glossy dark glass. "We won."
"Outnumbered three to one," the dragon says.
"Our witch's arts are superior," the doll says.
"And what was the plan?" the dragon says, in glowering frustration.
The doll pauses for as long as possible before answering. "Fight hard enough to look convincing, strategic withdrawal, allow documents to fall into enemy hands to misdirect them," it recites.
"And what did you do?"
"Won," the doll says.
"Captured half the Glasswitch's dolls, ripped out their loyalty — am I the only one horrified by the concept of loyalty being a discrete removable part? — stuffed them in maid uniforms — and I want to know where those came from — and put them to work dusting my hoard."
The doll nods, a brisk, efficient motion. It has an excellently designed neck for brisk nods of acknowledgement.
"Do I need to explain strategy to you again?" the dragon says helplessly.
"This one is built to win, Miss," the doll says, and Coilthraum jabs it in the chest with a claw.
"Can you show me which bit is the strategic incapacity? Can I pull it out?" the dragon snarls.
"This one can have its squad hold it down, disassemble it, and list its components for you, Miss," the doll says; and Coilthraum almost suspects a tinge of sarcasm, although the dragon knows the dolls will absolutely do it, at no more than a word.
"Once I reduce the Glasswitch to a smear of greasy ash, I am finding another witch and offloading you," the dragon grumbles, and recoils a little at the unaccustomed sight of every porcelain face's articulated smile.
