The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 4

However, it was not immediately wrong.

Scholars hypothesize that Edmund had a good three months of perfect invisibility before anything hindered his plans. For three months, Edmund did precisely what he was best at: he stayed unobtrusive, he did his job with unassuming skill, and he manipulated world events with a deft and subtle hand.

In his spare time, Edmund studied the Military. He found it fascinating.

It speaks much to Edmund’s character that one of the primary things he found interesting was the boredom. After Edmund’s first day as an ABC clerk, the next day passed much the same as the first, as did the next day, and the next. Military routine is a redundant term.

Tension, Edmund realized, degraded naturally. Pull a string taught and eventually the fibers will lengthen until they are able to be at rest while still being pulled. More force must be applied until the desired tension is reached again. He had needed to do this to Aoide’s strings many times.

In the Military, tension became the routine. It was a fascinating paradox. Every day became a new exercise in bureaucratic catastrophe. Colonels failed to report their battalion’s movements, which resulted in large amounts of shouting. Stock reports went missing, causing more shouting. Important letters vanished and entire regiments lost their salaries, which begat shouting from all directions at once.¹

At the same time, the chaos was becoming remarkably familiar. Every catastrophe bled into the next. Before long, Edmund greeted Major Schtillhart bursting into Filing Room B like a familiar breeze. He learned to salute properly and to stand up straight (At least, his superiors stopped demanding he do either, which could only mean he had mastered the art of both). He even learned a little Military slang.

It took two weeks before Edmund had established a system in Filing Room B that he was, if not proud of, at least satisfied with. Under the old system, the files had been loosely organized, if at all. Connections between the papers and letters inside said files were tenuous at best, ranging from being sent by the same soldier, to having been received on the same day. Edmund would have given much to see anyone try to find anything from such a half-hazard system.

For his part, Edmund had a better system: Reports couldn’t go under R, the file would comprise half the room. There need to be multiple sub-categories. Numeric functioning would be inefficient to back-catalog…“The Limits to filing / Alphabetically / could be circumvented / by a Hierarchy.” A categorical hierarchy, perhaps? Flexibility would increase by a factor of…

As for the letters and personal requests, Edmund found reading them turned out to be only moderately helpful. Ordinarily he was elated to read anything, but the pages that slid past his eyes were poorly written at best, an atrocity of composition at worst. Had none of these scribes heard of the indicative voice? Even accounting for the strict and blunt Military mind, there was no art or poetry in any of the pages. Somehow the Military had turned the lovely art of word-play into the dry equations of simple mathematics, without any of the alcehmical joy of the latter.

The information included is most likely the content that will be looked for, so quality of composition should not even be considered when choosing a filing location. “I dip my brain in words of ink / and let them stew in matters grave / and sort these matters as I think: / if they are trash, or worth to save…”

For an added bonus, as a clerk in the ABCs, Edmund was never far from something new to learn. He learned Major Schtillhart’s given name was Sessil. He learned about troop movements and logistics and supply lines. Before the end of his first month, he knew more about the logistics of managing the front lines than he wagered Brigadier McNaymare did.² Every piece and scrap of information was analyzed, processed, and set in its proper place for Edmund to enact his plan to save the Moulde Family.

If I make sure this letter is sent a day late, I’ll have time to file the rest of these reports. Once the ammunition projections are delivered, I can adjust the charcoal figures appropriately. After the honey report is forwarded, I can make sure the Jurgendellows receive notice of increased demand, and the Administration of Army Affairs will be forced to react —

By the time Filing Room B was to his satisfaction, Edmund was certain he had made the correct decision in joining the army.

Major Schtillhart had accidentally given Edmund a valuable piece of information on his first day; if it was on an official document, than it was true. To believe otherwise put the entire military in jeopardy.

It was a perfect plan. By the end of the war, the Moulde Family would be the industrial and economic powerhouse of all the Nine Founding Families. They would have two new factories in the best spot in the Farrows district, powered by cheap coal and dry-cell batteries, manufacturing more steel than the whole Empire would know what to do with.

And that was just for a start.

This is not to say that Edmund never left Filing Room B. While most of his time was devoted to saving the reputation of the Moulde Family, Edmund believed that he was, in his own way, creating a new kind of Moulde. He pulled virtues from antiquity and modern philosophy alike, and slowly crafted a new moral code with which he could redefine what it meant to be a Moulde.

This is all to say that when Edmund kept his promise to Mrs. Kippling, and returned to Moulde Hall once a week, it was not for her sake alone.

To the outside observer, it couldn’t have been for Matron’s sake, either. Their lunches were largely silent affairs, seemingly held on sufferance. When Matron spoke, which was rarely, her every word was alternately laced with disinterest and disgust at Edmund’s behavior.

Of particular loathing for Matron was Edmund’s constant medical ministrations, as personified in Doctor Hamfish. After all, the Mouldes were a practical family, and Matron the most practical of them all. She had lived for over a hundred years without a doctor’s intervention; to change that now couldn’t be healthy.

But Edmund knew Matron better than anyone, and he was certain of one thing: if Matron didn’t want the doctor around, she would get rid of him. Since the doctor still made regular house-calls as Edmund demanded, this meant that either Matron recognized his unpleasant necessity, or she was unable to get rid of the doctor.

Edmund wasn’t entirely positive which option was the more worrying.

Mrs. Kippling, for her part, could do nothing but burst into tears when she saw Edmund before putting the cast-iron tea-kettle to boil and filling two bowls with leftover soup.

“She’s putting something in the soup,” Matron glared at the bowl in front of her. “I’m certain of it.”

At Doctor Hamfish’s insistence, they had started eating their lunch outside in the fresh air. Edmund personally was uncertain as to the efficacy of such New-Age medicines, but he did feel better seeing Matron out of her bed.

“For my whole life, I’ve eaten inside,” she sneered. “A cold breeze brings a dodgy heart. Or the Black Chills. Mark my words, I’ll die of being outside so much.”

Enga would set up the small table in the back gardens where the dead flowers and knotty trees provided a poor view. Other times, Lunch was in the yellowed gazebo, or even once in the rotten hedge-maze, surrounded by granite statuary.

Ung’s references had proven adequate; Enga was a short muscular woman at least twice as old as Edmund. She was constantly dressed in a well polished butler uniform, every inch the image of her uncle. Edmund had never considered the fact that Ung might have family, but there she was, plain as day.

Today, Enga had set up their lunch on the front drive, under the watchful gaze of Kahmlichimus, the Gran Gargoyle. It reminded Edmund quite strongly of that night when he was eight, when he almost fled the Moulde Family for good and Matron had stopped him in the road to have tea.

When Matron had finished her lunch — an event that Edmund was gratified to note had become a faster and louder process of late — she settled back in her chair, stared at Edmund, and cocked a weathered eyebrow at him. It was a pose that had become familiar in its consistency; she expected Edmund to perform for her.³

“I received a letter from Ninnenburg just yesterday,” Edmund began. “They have a small surplus of pewter, as it happens, and are looking for a factory to sell to.”

Matron didn’t move.

“The Hagensens in Norway have heard of the unfortunate accident with the Tinton factories, and send their condolences.”

A gentle breeze blew across the gray grass of Haggard Hill.

“Lord Crableigh VI is eager to hear from us regarding any financial opportunities that may result from increased trade with —”

“Enough,” Matron sniffed as she reached for her tea.

Edmund fell silent. Part of him had known there was no reason to expect today to be any different than last week, or the week before. Matron was never satisfied with what he had done, no matter how obviously advantageous it was.

It had amazed Edmund how simple it had all been. A few letters, and the Moulde Family’s factories (of which there were only two in the entire Farrows district — sad things with old engines and poor quality) reluctantly dropped their prices. A subtle nod to the right people, and they began preparing to capitalize on the army’s sudden and inevitable need for rivets. A few mis-filings, and the army suddenly found itself with fewer purchasing options than they once had thought.

They were almost ready! A nudge here and a word or two there, and the Moulde Family was poised like a spring-trap. Once Lord Crableigh spoke with the Norwegian ambassador, and their new iron-mine opened trade to Britannia…

But Matron was never satisfied. For the past three months she had listened patiently to his plans until she had heard enough. Then, over the course of an hour, she would painstakingly pick apart every hole she could find to the point of absurdity. Why, once she had even chastised him for not preparing a contingency for a sudden snowstorm in March!

He didn’t need Matron to be grateful. He knew he didn’t. If he did, he would be disappointed, because gratitude was not an emotion she had practiced. But it was tiring. With mild resignation, Edmund reached out to pick up the daily newspaper from where Enga had placed it, silent and invisible as a breeze.

“Any Moulde that needs a newspaper to know what’s going on is a poor Moulde indeed,” Matron sneered from behind her teacup.

“It is important to know what the people of Brackenburg are being told,” Edmund gave his well rehearsed argument.

It was mostly true. The whole truth was that Edmund simply didn’t want to spend all his time pulling hidden threads and strings just to get the information that was printed every day in the paper anyway. True, the quality of the news was less reliable, but he was going to have to sift the wheat from the chaff wherever he got the news from, and the Brackenburg Post was handed to him.

“Feh. We know what they are being told; we are the ones who tell them.”

“Not anymore,” Edmund said. “There is a new kind of journalism these days. It’s called muckraking. The common-folk find out things themselves and then tell each other about it.”

“Hedgerow gossip.”

Perhaps it was, but Edmund had learned the people who spent their time hunting secrets on their own would soon be a force to be reckoned with.

“I assure you,” Edmund placated, “the Brackenburg Post is only read by the highest class of individual.”

“Hmph,” Matron reached for her tea. “I suppose everyone must have at least one…eccentricity. Are you finished with your tea?”

It was the closest Matron would ever get to asking if Edmund was well. “Almost,” he answered, setting his empty cup down. “Has anyone come by to see you, recently? I find myself worried on your behalf without Ung or myself to keep you company.”

“That thrice-damned doctor is more than enough trouble,” Matron glared. “And if he were not constantly underfoot, I still write quite regularly with my friends. In fact, just the other day I received a letter from Lady Redgrave.”

Matron had no friends, Edmund knew, and any regular correspondence she had was more likely the result of the tightly structured social expectations of the Founding Families than any desire to connect with another human being. The fact that she mentioned Lady Redgrave was clear enough for Edmund.

“How is she?”

“Strangely temperate weather this week,” Matron said, sipping loudly. “I wonder if there is something in the air.”

“Surely nothing too unexpected.”

“I hear Cliffside was struck with unseasonable weather just last week.” Matron pushed herself out of her chair. “Lunch is over. When you get back, remind Ung that just because he’s no longer under my watchful eye doesn’t mean he can loaf about like a laborer. Even with you.”

---

Edmund was fumed all the way back to Filing Room B. Even considering that she was family, Matron had really become quite trying.

Ung was certainly not “loafing about.” He had been invaluable to Edmund during these first few months of his military career. When Edmund had found himself confused or ignorant about some minor military matter, Ung had provided useful insight into the army’s inner workings. Was she simply being cantankerous for her own amusement?

Edmund dismissed the idea as soon as he thought it. For all her spiteful sneers and dismissive tones, Matron had never been spiteful without reason. Her every action had purpose behind it, and she expected Edmund to work out what that purpose was.

By the time that Edmund had seated himself at his desk, his frustration had passed. His mind had settled on one inescapable fact; Matron thought something was wrong.

Matron most likely knew what his plans were lacking and thought Ung could help, but how? Edmund wasn’t sure. He had never thought of Ung doing any more than the duties of a butler; even now in the Military his service as Aide-de-camp was practically identical to everything he had done before.

He couldn’t ignore Matron’s instincts, but at the same time, he sat in the crux of a massive network of information. There was nothing that Edmund didn’t know about the current functioning of the Military…or at least, nothing he couldn’t find out with a short visit to his files.

Perhaps Matron was wrong?

She had been sick, after all…

But she was looking better.

Shaking his head free from his vacillating thoughts, Edmund fell back to his oldest balm: his work. Atop his desk was a supply requisition form that needed to be filled out and filed in triplicate; a monotonous task at best, but Edmund had just last night finished an invention that required testing.

True, he didn’t need to test it: Maths were maths and the properties of levers and gears didn’t change as the tide. Nevertheless, there was something magical about taking something that lived in your head and putting it out into the world.

Formed from ethereal, form all mercurial, / flow from my head and my heart. / But to mirror a thought, imperfect as it ought, / formed thus is, faithfully, Art.

He called it the Typograph. It was a marvelous brass machine that could set type and print it directly onto a page of paper without needing to mess about with a large printing press. It was elegant in its construction; rather than fitting a whole page of type and stamping each page, Edmund could press a single key and stamp a single letter.

Placing a sheet of blank paper on the central cylinder, Edmund lay his hands over the hemispherical pincushion of levers and keys. Double-checking the hinges to make sure they were clear, Edmund pressed a key.

With a clack that echoed through Filing Room B, the key depressed, the lever twisted, and a single letter was pressed on the blank sheet of paper. Edmund lifted up his finger, and the lever receded. With a small twist, Edmund rotated the paper, advancing one space, and pressed a different key. Then again, and again, until he had tested every one.

Edmund pulled the sheet of paper from the cylinder, and looked at it. A neat row of letters and numbers met his eyes, as clean as any printing press.

It worked perfectly. All he needed now was to decide where to put the letters to ensure the most efficient writing speed, and then work out how to move the machine with each lever pressed. A pull-back gear mechanism would work, but it would be heavier, and more cumbersome than the rest of the Typograph. Perhaps an electromagnet?

Making a note for later, Edmund moved on to the practical test. He grabbed the supply requisition form from the top of his desk and set a clean piece of paper into the Typograph. Reading the form carefully and setting his fingers properly, he began to type.

After the first line, he had to stop and unstick two letters that had jammed in the machine. Pressing and releasing is a singular process. I should try pressing the keys slower.

After the second line, he had to unstick three letters. I can press the keys faster than the machine can reset. Perhaps I should put letters that are often used together further apart.

After the forth, he paused to check a recent weekly stock report from his desk; my fingers are already tiring. Perhaps place the most common letters together, easily reachable without stretching…

After the Fifth line, Edmund had stopped testing his Typograph completely and was reading the stock report in earnest. When he reached the bottom, he read it again. That wasn’t right.

It is here that mention must be made of the Unaccountable Accounts.

Edmund was a meticulous filer, among the greatest of his era.⁴ But the contents of Filing Room B were a Gordian knot, twisting and turning in such a way that even the intractable military mind could not keep it all straightforward. As such, mistakes were made.

They must have been mistakes; Edmund could see no other explanation. Old stock reports claimed twenty kilos of gunpowder, when five separate letters between Generals swore there were no more than seventeen. A Brigadier reported ninety-three able-bodied volunteers, when the requisition for supplies listed ninety-four. Here and there, minor mistakes popped up like hedgehogs on a hillside; easily seen, but impossible to explain.

Questions were asked of officers who didn’t exist. Reprimands cited orders that had been overturned years ago. Letters had to be followed up with corrections or adjustments. Demands were formally withdrawn before they had the chance to be sent. There were even reports with easily noticed mathematical mistakes.

What to do with all these inconsistencies? Edmund could have devised a whole subset to his structured filing system, but he was learning the importance of efficiency in his daily life, and so opted instead to choose a more expedient approach; he selected a cabinet. It was a perfectly ordinary cabinet, save for the fact that it held a specific drawer. This drawer was not particularly significant, except for the fact that it held a specific folder, which Edmund had reserved for the Unaccountable Accounts.

It was this folder that Edmund now ran to, dumping its contents all over the floor.

With his raw material covering the ground, Edmund worked for a full hour sorting, stacking, restacking, shifting, pushing, and pulling before he was certain.

The requisition form was correct; it was Edmund who was wrong.

It had been such a simple comment, a brief reference in the fifth line to a previous discussion. “As we discussed earlier,” it said, and Edmund had neither seen nor filed any previous discussion of any kind.

Fool of a Moulde, they have their own club!

It had been such a simplistic mistake. He had embraced the upright and forthright nature of Major Schtillhart, while forgetting the gentrified habits of the Generals and Brigadiers. Of course decisions and plans were being agreed upon without the guiding flag of letters.

Every file in his Unaccountable Accounts was incomplete. Perhaps some were truly errors, but others were undoubtedly the results of back-handed comments in the club, handshakes in the hallway, and other such unofficial mandates.

By the time Ung brought Edmund his dinner,⁵ he had come to recognize the limited value of his invisibility. He saw everything that passed through Filing Room B, yes, but what of the things that existed outside his office?

Edmund spent the post-dinner hours pacing back and forth across his office. His plans weren’t ruined, not yet at any rate. He could salvage things quite easily. The problem was simply that he was only seeing everything the Army wanted filed; everything that had happened. All he needed was some way of learning what was going to happen.

If the Military had taken up residence in the dark hallways of Moulde Hall, he would have spent hours darting between the walls in the secret passages, peeking through peepholes and listening at keyholes. As it was, Edmund wasn’t sure what to do.

That night, while Edmund was being dressed for bed by a tall and taciturn Ung, the memory of Matron’s admonition resurfaced in his mind. Matron wanted Ung to do more. She wanted Edmund to know Ung could do more.

How much more? He knew that Ung had been a former soldier, who had served in the last war. He had survived it, of course, and in so doing had received the scorn and ire from a large number of Mouldes. And after he survived, he had chosen to serve in possibly the most difficult position in the city — butler to Matron Moulde — and he had excelled.

Edmund began to wonder exactly what his ex-butler was capable of.

Thinking quickly, he scrawled out a quick list on a piece of paper. “I need you to acquire these supplies before next week,” Edmund held out the paper as Ung continued to dress him, “and pick up my brown leather bag from Moulde Hall. The one in the fourth floor eastern wing tool room. It should have everything I need. Oh, and an extra can of Southern France Trading Co. Ink, No. 3.”

“Very good, sir.” Ung took the paper from Edmund’s hand.

Edmund watched as his ex-butler’s thick hands continued unfastening, folding, and placing Edmund’s clothing carefully aside. “What did you do in the last war, Ung, before you became a butler?”

Ung’s hands didn’t pause. “I served as a soldier, sir.”

“On the front lines? Cavalry, perhaps? Or did you man the artillery?” It was easy to imagine those giant tree-trunk limbs hoisting lead balls into the air and driving them home into cannon muzzles.

“I would prefer not to talk about it, sir.” Ung pulled off Edmund’s last piece of underwear and plucked the folded nightshirt from the bed.

Ordinarily this outright refusal would have shocked Edmund, but he didn’t have the time. Instead, he asked his ex-butler a question that might seem odd to those who are unfamiliar with the Moulde Family, Edmund himself, or Edmund’s life up to that point.

“Ung, are there any shadows in the military?”

The ex-butler’s ministrations paused for the briefest of moments before his deep voice rumbled in response. “Sir is being poetic.”

He was, of course. He knew no other way to be. He had noticed it ever since his first day in the ABCs. The military was all shine and polish; brass buttons and glossy leather boots spat light across the room wherever you looked. Bright gas-lamps hissed at all hours, and no one in the multitude of soldiers that filled the City Hall had even heard of subtlety. Conversation was concise and straightforward. Arguments were had and then settled. Action was taken without discussion.

It was everything the Founding Families were not. There was nowhere for a well-meaning member of the Nine Founding Families to hide.

“Secrets, Ung,” Edmund tried again. “Is there nothing that can hide a curious eye?”

“Sir will undoubtedly find that curiosity is not appreciated in the army.”

“Not absent?”

Ung paused. For a moment, the giant man stared at Edmund, his statuesque gaze unwavering. “Perhaps,” he finally resumed tying the strings on Edmund’s wrists, “Sir would be advised to listen to the gossip. News travels quickly among the soldiers. A stray piece of news could mean the difference between a warm or cold meal. Or sturdy boots. Or life or death.”

“And have you heard anything,” Edmund spoke slowly, “about shadows?”

Ung’s eyes glittered in the darkened room. Again, Edmund couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was thinking long and hard about a very important question. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful.

“Perhaps…Sir would be interested in a rumor I heard in the last war.”

“Yes?”

“A single band of soldiers broke their oath to the King. They swore a new oath to the country itself. They were feared more than any battalion.”

“Why?”

“Because they were skilled in more than just fighting. They were shadows. An enigma. They could not be stopped because no one knew what they were. They could find information that the enemy wanted hidden. They operated outside the chain of command. They did what needed to be done.”

Edmund was intelligent enough to not ask the obvious questions: “who were they,” “what happened to them,” or even “whose side were they on.” Instead, he asked what he saw as the more important question.

“What were they called?”

“Die Schwarzen Hunde.”

Edmund nodded, reached out, and took his notebook and pen from the small table beside his bed. “Thank you, Ung,” he blew out the candle. “You have given me much to think about.”

Before Edmund even bothered to try and fall asleep, he had already written Die Schwarzen Hunde in large letters at the top of his notebook page.

---

The first thing that Edmund did the next morning, after reading through what he had written in his sleep and marveling at his ingenuity, was to write a letter to General Higgson, the head of the ABCs.

As far as Edmund knew,⁶ General Higgson was a bumbling fellow, unable or unwilling to exert much control over his underlings, yet well connected enough to never be discharged. He was a necessity, but not an asset to either the army as a whole or the ABCs in particular.

This made Edmund’s letter — which detailed a new policy to be implemented for increased communication and efficiency — less a request and more a mandate. He had already decided how, where, and when to file everything; it was no trouble to adjust policy without anyone noticing.

After the letter was written and handed off to Ung, Edmund grabbed a small stack of letters, reports, and files from his desk and head through the City Hall to Brigadier McNaymare’s office.

He was the only ABC clerk under McNaymare, after all. If he decided he now needed the Brigadier’s signature on any number of official documents, who would argue? It wasn’t the most elegant of plans, but it was bluntly efficient.

When he reached the door of the Logistical Administrative Legion, he was only mildly surprised to find it closed. What earnestly surprised him was the man sitting by the door. He was thin, clean, only a few years older than Edmund, and well-dressed in a long deep-red cassock. His hair was a perfect yellow, perched on his head like a fine Sunday hat. His hands were loose in his lap, as relaxed as his smile that he directed towards Edmund with an unassuming air.

What was a priest doing sitting outside Brigadier McNaymare’s office?

“Hello,” the priest said.

“Hello,” Edmund replied, after a moment of concerned thought.

“Come to speak with Brigadier McNaymare?” The priest glanced at the closed door. “As have I. He appears to be quite busy.”

“There is much to do,” Edmund agreed. “War is a complex machine.”

“So I have been told, and as I am no soldier I must yield to the experts. I must admit I have always thought killing looked quite simple indeed. I daresay the Military has made a habit of it.” Edmund stared at the priest for a moment longer before the man smiled wide and extended his hand. “Forgive me. My name is Brother Bromard of the Third Sconce.”

Edmund’s eyes darted to the small iron sconce hanging around his neck. “A pleasure.”

“Will you take a seat with me?”

Edmund did.

“Are you quite well? You seem quite nervous.”

Edmund was nervous. In his seventeen years of life, he had never met a member of the Church, much less a member of the Order of the Holy Torch. All he knew of them was what he had been told, and he had not been told anything comforting.

Matron hated the Church. Cousin Tricknee feared them. Kolb spoke of the Church like a monstrous boogeyman. Junapa had done everything she could to avoid them.

For all the reasons that Edmund could think of for a priest to wait outside a General’s office, none of them were reassuring.

Edmund’s concerns were confirmed after he realized: “You didn’t ask my name.”

“No. I know very well who you are, Master Moulde.” Edmund fell silent as the man continued. “I must admit, I am surprised. I had assumed any member of the Founding Families who joined the army would be nothing less than a Colonel, but you are only a Lieutenant?”

Edmund nodded.

“I must applaud your dedication, to accept such a small commission in service of King and Country. Humility is a great virtue.”

Edmund didn’t answer.

“May I inquire what you wish to speak with the Brigadier about?”

“Why do you want to know?” Edmund asked, before he could stop himself.

“Curiosity,” Brother Bromard raised his hands in supplication, “nothing more. Of course, I understand your discretion. Please, forget I asked.”

“What do you wish to speak with him about?”

“It is a matter of great importance,” the priest’s smile never wavered, “but I am afraid I was given strictest instructions to tell Brigadier McNaymare, only.”

“I see.”

There was a pause while the two studied each other, each weighing the other’s sincerity.

“Of course,” Brother Bromard broke the silence, “the country is at war, and I have heard, as no doubt others have, that silence and secrecy are powerful weapons against those who seek to destroy us.”

“I have always found it so.”

“Then I shall pry no further. It is wise, Master Moulde, to remain vigilant. There is no telling what prying eyes work in opposition to the goals of our noble and glorious army.”

Did he know, this strange and pious man, of the infiltration that had occurred under the military’s very nose? Edmund was about to reply when Major Schtillhart crested the stairs heading straight for McNaymare’s door, pausing when he saw the two men.

“Yes?” he barked at the priest.

“I am Brother Bromard, of the Order of the Holy Torch, Third Sconce. I have come to speak with Brigadier McNaymare, when he is available.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time,” Schtillhart muttered. Then, in a clearer voice: “The Brigadier is very busy today. Most every day. Might I suggest you speak with one of the other Brigadiers or Generals that —”

“I’m afraid my superiors were quite explicit,” Brother Bromard shook his head in apology.

“As was mine.” Schtillhart turned to Edmund. “Lieutenant Mauve? What are you doing here?”

Edmund stood up, hoping Brother Bromard had not noticed Edmund’s nom de guarre, or if he had, that he considered it unimportant. “There is a new filing policy,” he hoisted his stack of papers into view. “I need to get Brigadier’s signature on these documents.”

“What?” A scowl peeled across Major Schtillhart’s face. “What on earth for?”

“For the new filing policy,” Edmund explained.

Edmund had worked it out in his sleep. In the Army there was always the person who was giving orders, and the others who followed them. All orders had reasons, but if you didn’t know them, you were supposed to follow the orders anyway. If you were clever enough, you could use “orders” as an excuse for doing anything, as long as no one demanded to know from where the orders came from.

When he had first found the loophole, Edmund had wondered how no one else was utilizing it. Then he wondered how he would notice if anyone was.

But tension was a powerful force; strong enough, he realized, to keep the army functioning on little more than an honor system. Sure enough, Schtillhart only managed a modicum of frustration before opening General McNaymare’s door and ushering Edmund inside, leaving Brother Bromard alone to wait.

The Brigadier was not nearly as patient. “Ach! Major Schtillhart, where have ye been? I’m going to be late for the General’s Club if ye — Eh?” He paused as he saw Edmund step into the room. “Lieutenant? What’s this?”

“A new policy,” Edmund explained yet again. “I need you to sign these letters and reports to signify you saw them.”

“What?” McNaymare snorted. “That’s why I requisitioned ye in the first place! I canna spend all me time signin’ letters an reports!”

“Yes,” Edmund admitted, “but new policy is for you to sign what I’ve signed, to signify I am signing with your authority.”

“Ach!” Brigadier McNaymare collapsed back into his chair. “Give them here, then!”

Edmund handed over the stack of paper and faded into the background.

“Well?” McNaymare barked at Schtillhart. “I’m having lunch today with General Haybeard, and I would very much like to tell him some good news!”

“I’m afraid the reports are not ideal, sir,” Schtillhart winced. “From all due accounts, our coke supplies are dwindling, and we are almost out of iron. There are sundry shortages in the east and north. If I might have your permission —”

“Ye ga’e me ye’r suggestion once before, Major,” McNaymare blew through his mustache, “and I ga’e ye my answer. Increased rationing is no acceptable as a solution! Why, even the General’s Club is already having to make do! Any more limits on steel and the whole o’ Britannia will grind te a halt!”

Precisely as Edmund has expected, he noted with no small sense of satisfaction. For all he had missed hiding out in Filing Room B, he had still managed to stay on top of some of the military’s actions.

“Then if I might offer an alternate suggestion? Allow me to explore other avenues of solving our shortages.”

“Other avenues?” McNaymare looked up from the stack. “What on earth do ye mean?”

“Sir, if we are running low on steel, than perhaps we could find some alternatives that —”

“Alternatives?” the Brigadier’s fury perfectly mirrored Edmund’s shock. The army wasn’t supposed to be looking for alternatives, they were supposed to be looking for Edmund.

“Nay, I’ll no accept it,” the Brigadier huffed, scribbling at the papers. “For fifty years, steel has been vital to the army. Ye see this?” Brigadier McNaymare stood up and drew his sword, holding it out like a ships figurehead, pointing its way towards land and victory. “Real Damascus steel. Look close, and ye can see the patterns on the blade. It’s the last thing many men have e’er seen, those patterns on my blade. Finer steel there has ne’er been!”

“It is a fine sword, sir.” Major Schtillhart managed to nod without breaking the ramrod straightness of his at-attention. “How old is it?”

“At least a hundred years,” the Brigadier beamed as he held it in his hands like a plate of the finest rare beef. “Maybe more. T’was handed down te me from my father, and from his father te him, all the way back te my great-great-great-grandfather.” Edmund was not impressed.⁷ The Brigadier sighed to himself as he sheathed the blade like a priest closing a prayer-book. “Shortages. Poor quality. Pewter and brass instead o’ iron and steel. Bronze and glass instead o’ a good solid piece o’ lead!”

“Sir?”

Schtillhart’s tone was perfectly pitched to suggest a sudden and possibly brilliant idea. “I imagine that before steel was invented, a great many generals thought the same way about iron. Nothing beats iron, they said, until someone invented steel.”

“What’s ye’r point, Major? Spit it out!”

“I can’t help but wonder, sir, if you might be in the perfect position to capitalize on what will come after steel? According to the gossip, there is a company in Princebridge who has invented a metal better than steel; stronger, plentiful, and cheap. If these rumors are correct, we may be on the verge of replacing every piece of steel in our army.”

“Aye?”

“They say it’s three times as strong and half the weight. It makes blades twice as sharp and helmets that can withstand rifle bullets. Sir, it could be the difference between victory and defeat.”

“I am no in the habit o’ conducting Military Affairs through rumor, Major. What’s the metal called?”

“They call it Chrome.”

Edmund had to admit, it was a good name. He could see the idea building in the Brigadier’s head as he rubbed his mustache in though. “Ye truly think these rumors o’ some new metal are worth my time?”

“I’ll investigate.” Both Major Schtillhart and Brigadier McNaymare jumped as Edmund stepped forward.

“Dear god! Lieutenant!” McNaymare shouted when he had settled back in his seat. “What in blazes are ye — what’s the meaning o’…Don’t e’er sneak up on me ag’in like that, understood?”

“Are you volunteering, Lieutenant?” Major Schtillhart said, grasping onto the thrust of Edmund’s interjection.

“Princebridge is only two days away by train,” Edmund explained. “I can travel down, investigate the rumors, and report back as to the value or validity of any newly invented metals.” And their obvious inferiority to the reliable Imperial steel I should be smelting for you already.

“Aye.” McNaymare rubbed his mustache. “Well, I’m late for lunch at the General’s Club. Major? I’ll leave the decision to ye. Quick, now! I’ll think o’ something to tell old Haybeard…”

When the Brigadier had shut the door behind him, Major Schtillhart turned to Edmund with a sniff. “We don’t have time or men to spare on frivolities. Don’t spend too long sniffing around, just find out what you can and get back as soon as possible.”

There was a pause, and then Schtillhart leaned closer. “From what I hear,” his tone was flat, “they’re somewhere on the southern side of the city. I heard the name Forthmore.”

“Yes, sir,” Edmund noted the name, and began to walk way back to Filing Room B to get ready, pausing only to glance at Brother Bromard.

The priest’s smile hadn’t faded.