The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 6

It took Edmund almost the entire rest of the day to sort out what he needed to do next.

Edmund did not think slowly; rather, when he put all his efforts into plotting and planning, he thought about so many things at once that it merely appeared that he thought slowly. This is akin to how a train powerful enough to carry a hundred cars full of diamonds may move slower than a rather small dog pulling a roller skate.

Edmund’s plan, such as it was, had not fundamentally changed. In traveling to Princebridge, he had hoped to ascertain whether the inventor of Chrome was someone he could work with, or someone he had to circumvent. The fact that the inventors were the Wickes did not make the answer obsolete, merely obvious.

It was almost six in the afternoon by the time Edmund had finished typing out his report to the Brigadier and made his way up the stairs to McNaymare’s office.

No sooner had he crested the stairs than he pulled up short. Brother Bromard was still there, lying down next to the door. His smile was peaceful as ever, and his hands were clasped behind his head. He had obviously been resting.

“Hello again, Lieutenant Moulde,” the priest said, without opening his eyes.

Edmund could not have been a Moulde if he were not able to switch gears quite quickly, to say nothing of compartmentalize intense emotions. As important as it was to report to McNaymare, it was equally important, if not more so, to be polite.

All the same, “why are you still here” was a useless question, as was “why are you still waiting?” Instead, Edmund fell back on the one obvious fact. “The floor is not a comfortable bed, I’m afraid.”

“But familiar,” Brother Bromard smiled. “In our Order, we eschew extravagances like beds. If we become used to such things, we will feel their loss all the more keenly if they are taken from us.”

“Ah.” It had been five days since Edmund had left for Princebridge. If Brother Bromard was still waiting, what hope did Edmund have of acquiring some of the Brigadier’s valuable time?

Brother Bromard must have noticed Edmund’s concern, as he gestured lightly with a clerical hand. “I believe they are waiting for your report. I’m afraid I couldn’t help but overhear the Brigadier’s…expressive demand.”

“I will remind him you are here,” Edmund said. “Perhaps he will find some time to meet with you.”

“Likely not tomorrow, nor the day after.” Bromard opened his eyes, revealing the wrinkles of exhaustion and distant mists of fatigue in his eyes. “I’m afraid Major Schtillhart has already told me the Brigadier is not meeting with me today. Nevertheless, I will wait.”

“Why?”

“The Brothers of our order are used to waiting, Lieutenant,” the young priest shook his head. “Do you know why we embrace the symbol of the torch? A sconce will sit bolted to a wall, casting its light and banishing the shadows, even if no one is around to be grateful. It will illuminate a corner forever on the off chance that some day it may be necessary.”

The priest’s eyes unfocused as he stared back into his past. “Before being admitted as an acolyte, we must wait patiently for days, until spoken to by one of the fathers. Then, we must sweep the walkways and vestibules, dust the statues, and shine the candlesticks for a full year before we are allowed to even begin our studies. Then, when we become students, we must wait — patiently — for a teacher to step forward from the ranks of the fathers and brothers to teach us. Finally, when we are to become ordained we must wait for weeks outside the deep cloisters in our chapels, without saying a word or making a sound.”

“I see.” Edmund had never heard about any of the religious practices of the Order of the Holy Torch.

“We are patient, Master Moulde. The Order of the Holy Torch knows that all things come to those who are willing to wait for them, and we are willing to wait. And watch. And ready ourselves for what is to come.”

As if leaving a trance, Brother Bromard blinked and resettled against the floor, closing his eyes again. “So I will wait for the Brigadier to speak with me.”

Edmund had no such patience, and so he only watched the priest for a moment longer before moving to the Brigadier’s door.

Before he could knock, a familiar voice shouted from behind him. “Lieutenant! You have your report?”

Edmund turned to see Major Schtillhart ascending the stairs. “I do,” Edmund said, holding out the four pages he had typed up.

“Did you have this printed?” Schtillhart frowned as he snatched the papers away from Edmund’s hands. “Is there any particular reason you decided to waste both your time and the Military Office of Printing for this one report?”

“I didn’t. I invented a Typographical Machine that —”

“What does your report say?” Schtillhart barked.

Edmund paused only a moment before explaining. It still unsettled him that the Major was eager to receive written reports, only to demand verbal recitations once the papers were in hand. “Based on the current Transport Union prices, and the added premium for the Laborers fee, I’ve calculated that even if Chrome is better than steel, it will cost the army more than it’s already spending on steel alone just to transport the metal from Princebridge to our factories and warehouses. Compared to smelter in the Farrows district —”

“You were not asked to do those calculations, Lieutenant!” Schtillhart snapped. “What about the Chrome specifically?”

“The…inventors,” he couldn’t bring himself to say their name, “are unwilling to release any information about Chrome or discuss its purchase with anyone less than a Major, sir.”

“Fine,” Schtillhart nodded. “Dismissed.”

Edmund paused. “I am supposed to give my report to the Brigadier.”

“You gave it to me,” Schtillhart leveled a steely gaze, “and I will now give it to him. I said dismissed!”

Spinning hard on his heel, Schtillhart strode to the Brigadier’s office door, and stepped inside.

To say that Edmund slipped behind Major Schtillhart on instinct is perhaps a misrepresentation. It is more accurate to say that Edmund’s brain was never still, and the time spent watching Schtillhart walk to the Brigadier’s door, knocking, and then opening the door, was a lifetime for Edmund’s mind. An analytical study of the costs and benefits of every action was instinct to Edmund, and he knew the consequences of disobeying a direct order. He knew the risks of being present when not requested. Perhaps above all, he understood the penalty for spying.

Regardless, when the Brigadier’s door closed, Edmund was on what any military court would unanimously agree was the wrong side.

“Well, Major?” Brigadier McNaymare was busy waxing his mustache. “Any news?”

“Just received Lieutenant Mauve’s report, sir.” Schtillhart snapped to attention, firing off a salute.

“And?” McNaymare looked up from his small shaving mirror.

“He found the inventors of Chrome, sir. Apparently they are the wealthy owners of a business out of Princebridge, Forthmore’s Fabrications. They invented the metal in the upstairs laboratory.”

In the corner of the room, Edmund’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah!” McNaymare leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. “Sure sign o’ genius, that; inventing in a laboratory. What did he find, then? What is this Chrome?”

“It’s a new iron alloy. For only a fraction of iron ore and…a few other metals, they can create a metal stronger steel, lighter, and best of all, impervious to rust.”

How did you know that? Edmund had purposefully left it out of his report, both because he wasn’t sure he believed it, and too because if it were true, he didn’t want the Brigadier to know about it.

Sure enough, McNaymare dropped his arms in shock. “Rust-proof? Are ye sure?”

“It is what they claim, sir.”

“Impossible! There’s nay such metal!”

“They were quite insistent.”

“Amazing! How much does this metal cost?”

“We…don’t know sir.”

“Oh? That seems te be a very important part of this whole situation, Major. Are ye telling me that this Lieutenant went all the way te Princebridge and dinna ask about the bally price?”

“He did, sir, but the Wickes were unwilling to discuss details with anyone of lower rank than a Major, sir.”

“Aye?” The Brigadier stood up, his waxed mustache bristling. “Is that so? And did the Lieutenant inform the blighters o’ military etiquette, protocol, and regulation? Did they no ken that no one speaks wi’ a Major until speaking wi’ a Captain? And no one speaks wi’ a Captain until speaking wi’ a Lieutenant?”

“I believe he did, sir.”

It is perhaps overly obvious to mention that one of the many skills Edmund had been forced to learn as a Moulde was that of deception — both his own and others’.¹ As such, at the moment Major Schtillhart lied to the Brigadier, Edmund’s focus sharpened to a razors edge.

One lies only when the truth is disadvantageous. What does Schtillhart lose by admitting I didn’t explain military etiquette? But the Major doesn’t know what I said to the Wickes…he didn’t even read the report…is he guessing? Assuming? What value was there in that?

“We’re no common customer!” McNaymare stood, shoving his chair behind him. “We’re the bloody army!”

“Yes sir.”

“Could they even supply the entire army with this rust-proof steel?”

“They could sir, if the army provides them land lease rights for three adjacent square blocks in the Farrow district, to build a second Manufactory.”

“Ach, a second?” McNaymare snapped. “What’s wrong with their current one?”

“Size and location. It’s quite small — fitting for their former business — but they couldn’t possibly maintain the output we’d require with their current Manufactory. The cost for transport alone would be prohibitive. Building in the Farrows will shorten the supply line considerably. If we give them a full three city blocks to build in, we’ll be able to increase our supplies faster. They want to build at —”

The corner of Hadlam and Chadwick. Edmund knew before Schtillhart said anything. He had picked the exact same spot. It was the perfect location for a new smelting plant, and with that single building he would have been half-way to saving his family for good. Once the war was over, whomever built at Hadlam and Chadwick would have a factory at the center of the Farrows, flush with supplies and ready to dominate the manufacturing market in the whole City.

“It could be a hoax.”

Both Major Schtillhart and Brigadier McNaymare shouted out of shock. Edmund shouted out of self-recrimination; both for blurting out before he had the chance to clear his throat or any other form of polite notice of his presence, and because his blurtation was such a clumsy effort. Was that really the best he could have done? Unfortunately, at the time, it was.

“Lieutenant!” McNaymare slammed his fist onto the table. “Will ye no get it through ye’r thick head? Ye canna do that! Especially when we are in a private meeting!”

“I didn’t know it was private,” Edmund lied.

“I’ll be writing ye up for this! A full reprimand!”

“Yes sir,” Edmund clasped his hands behind his back. “Shall I wait for you to write it now?”

“Ach, nay,” McNaymare waved his flustered hands. “Just…write it up ye’ own self, and send it and file it as usual.”

“Yes sir.” Fool, fool of a Moulde! He should have remained silent and observed, but the revelation had been too shocking. The mention of Hadlam and Chadwick was irrefutable; Schtillhart was working for the Wickes. A spy? An employee? There was no telling as yet. All Edmund knew was Schtillhart’s efforts were bent towards seeing the Wickes and their Chrome supplying the Military, as Edmund was towards the Mouldes. In that instant, Major Schtillhart changed from Edmund’s superior officer to his adversary.

Major Schtillhart must have sensed the threat Edmund posed to his employers; he spoke quickly and with a louder voice than was strictly necessary. “If I may suggest, sir, two days confinement to quarters is perhaps a suitable punishment?”

Unfortunately for Schtillhart, McNaymare had heard Edmund only too clearly. “Now what was that ye said, Lieutenant?” McNaymare’s eyes were dark, his mustache bristled. “A hoax?”

“Sage-metallurgists have searched for rustless-iron for centuries,” Edmund rallied as best he could. “Increasing the heat, alloying the metal, adjusting the angle of the hammer and tongs…rust free metals have been made, but none equal to steel, much less better.”

“Aye?” McNaymare thumped his desk. “Then we need to see proof o’ this metal. The King’s army is not in the habit of signing contracts or shaking hands at a word. I need a full report on the process, the metal, the supply stream, everything. I want to know exactly what we’re getting, and how we’re getting it. Understood?”

Edmund could see Schtillhart sag, even though his spine didn’t move. “Yes, sir.”

“Princebridge, ye say? Good.” McNaymare pulled a piece of paper from his desk and began to write. “Send another private te demand a sample. Nay,” he raised a finger in sudden revelation. “Major Schtillhart, ye will go and get a piece o’ Chrome. Ye’ll be operating in my stead, aye? Ye will immediately head to the requisition office and arrange for a train to take ye to Princebridge. Ye will knock on the Manufactory door, and ye will demand to acquire a sample o’ this Chrome! Ye hear me, Major? If King and City are going to hand over three square blocks in the Farrows for some magic metal, I need to know what we’re getting!”

---

Edmund threw himself into his chair and continued to think. He had started thinking the instant he knew Major Schtillhart was spying for the Wickes and hadn’t stopped since.

The Major was an excellent choice for a spy; he had access to the same files Edmund had, was of higher rank, and a direct subordinate to the head of the LAL. If Edmund had been the kind of manipulator who had others do his own work, he might have made a similar choice.

The question was, how best to hinder his superior officer’s plans? Edmund didn’t even know what the Major’s plans were, at the moment. What he needed was a spy of his own…

“Sir?”

Edmund looked up to see Ung, standing in the door way.

“Yes, Ung?”

“Sir,” Ung’s deep voice boomed as he bowed. “I have heard some gossip that Sir must be made aware of.”

Must, Edmund noted. Must be made aware. Ung thinks I should be worried. “Regarding?”

“A regulatory violation,” Ung’s low voice fell lower still. “An army Corporal was recently detained and is currently being held at Brackenburg Prison. He has not yet been charged, due to lack of concrete evidence.”

“He was detained anyway?”

“The charges are…substantial. And consequential.”

Military discipline was not Edmund’s jurisdiction. In fact, as a member of the Army Bureaucratic Corps, Edmund’s jurisdiction didn’t extend much further than Filing Room B; but Ung was no fool. If he felt this Corporal’s arrest important enough to bring to Edmund’s attention, then it was a matter that Edmund certainly needed to address.

“I took the liberty,” Ung said, as Edmund stood, “of acquiring a carriage. It is waiting outside for Sir.”

---

Dating back to before the city was officially established, the Backenburg Jail was the first building erected in the city proper, out of necessity. Equidistant from the original districts where each of the Nine Founding Families made their homes, the Jail had been the hub of the wheel, where a compromised justice was meted out with impartial and vicious glee.

The jail cells were composed of a myriad of different rooms: oubliettes into which entire street-brawls worth of criminals could be thrown and forgotten, estate rooms where nobility and royalty could be held in highest comfort, walls lined with chains, and torture rooms with furnaces, racks, and whips.²

“Whatdya want?” squawked a short man sitting it a tall chair behind a taller desk. “Sir,” he begrudgingly added, seeing Edmund’s military uniform and officer’s sash.

“You are holding a soldier awaiting a military tribunal. I wish to see him.” Edmund said. Behind him he could feel Ung’s limbs shift into a brick wall of crossed arms, eloquently communicating how important it was that the jailer not argue the point.

“Oh?” The jailer cocked an eyebrow before hopping down from his chair and fumbling at his belt for the keys. “S’fine. Come on, then. ‘olding ‘im in the back.”

The tight hallways of the Jail gave Ung some difficulty, but Edmund was quite comfortable, slipping between the cramped stonework and ducking under torch sconces. They had only gone a few feet before the jailer shot a glance back at Edmund, his face in a leering smile.

“So, ’e’s a political, then?”

Edmund heard Ung grumble, but he couldn’t discern if it was cautionary or merely frustration at the uncomfortable passageways.

“Not that I know of,” he said.

“Ah, that’s a political answer if’n e’er I ’eard un. Ne’er seen a military type come to see one o’ there own in the pokey, ‘ceptin them bein’ a political, like. Ne’er woulda guessed it. Not the political type, this un.”

“What type is that?”

“Your type,” the jailer snickered. “Unassumin’. Ne’er ’eld a rifle in their lives. Thems that would ne’er be a h’officer wi’out their family purse payin’ their way.”

Was that really what Edmund looked like? The light was dim in the Jail, perhaps the jailer was hard of seeing. “And this soldier is not like that?”

The Jailer’s teeth glinted in the gloom. “I ’ear ’e’s got a nickname. Soldiers call ‘im ‘Scissors,’ and it ain’t because ’e’s a tailor.”

“What was he arrested for?”

“Oh, I only ’ears rumours, you understand. Only gossip. I ’ere ’e broke ranks and ran when ‘is regiment first met the enemy. At the first volley, ’e did. Cowardice in the face o’ the enemy, that is. Went missing for a month before they found ‘im again and brung ‘im back. Only then, you see,” he leaned closer, a conspiratorial wink in his eye, “Some say ’e killed seven tapas-eaters on ‘is own. Wi’out a gun, they say. And not grunts, but big uns, Captains and Majors and the like. Out o’ the trenches, you see. They call ‘im ‘Scissors.’ Now, if’n you’ll pardon me and wait here,” he sniffed, “only I ‘ave to inspect the cell. Regulations, see? ‘Ave to make certain the cell’s still good enough for a soldier, like. If you’ll wait ’ere ‘alf a tick, I’ll be but a moment.”

“You think this man is innocent?” Edmund asked Ung after the Jailer had wandered off into the gloom.

“I doubt it, Sir.”

“Then why are we here?”

Ung’s face was ruddy after struggling through the tiny hallways. He breathed heavily for a moment before scraping his arms along the walls in a difficult shrug. “Innocent or not, I believed Sir would not want him to remain in Brackenburg Jail, or to be brought before a Military Tribunal.”

This isn’t just about the military, Edmund realized, this is about family.

Just then, the jailer returned and took them to Scissors cell — a large stone room with a table, chair, and bench along the far wall.

“Get up, you layabout. H’officer’s come to see you.”

Edmund had almost found the answer already, so it was no great surprise to him when the long and lanky Corporal unfolded itself from the bench where it had been sitting, head in spindly hands. Two sunken eyes looked up from the floor, catching Edmund’s in a web of shock and skeptical disgust. After noting the sash, the soldier stood, and gave a passable, if somewhat mocking, salute.

“Well, well, well.” Pinsnip Sadwick sneered, reclaiming his seat on the bench. “I never expected to…see you here, Young Master Edmund.”

The feeling was mutual. Edmund had only met Pinsnip once when he was eight, but the experience had locked itself in Edmund’s mind. Joining the army seemed like the least likely thing for the scarecrow of a Sadwick to do, and the last thing the army would allow.

“You look well,” Edmund said. Pinsnip had aged remarkably. He was a bit thinner and his hair had become peppered with gray, but all in all he looked much as Edmund remembered him. His top hat had been replaced with a tall soldier’s cap, but his hands still ran over each other like nervous spiders, his eyes still darted around the room like dizzying flies.

“You look older,” Pinsnip sniffed. “I wouldn’t have recognized you if…um…not for Ung, there.” Pinsnip slumped back into his morose slouch. “And you only a Lieutenant? Another embarrassment for…for the family, I see. Quite disappointing, Master Moulde.”

“Lieutenant Mauve,” Edmund corrected. “Or sir.”

Pinsnip’s mouth twisted into a furious sneer. “Mauve? Oh, of course. Forgive me. I should have…guessed. Sir.” He rolled his eyes with the theatrical weight of the world on his shoulders. “I on the other hand couldn’t buy myself a commission, could I? I was…forced to enlist like a commoner.”

Edmund could imagine why. The Sadwick Family was currently trapped on their social rung. Without the boost of status, the Sadwicks were stuck paying for the lavish lifestyle they were expected to maintain. Every member of their family had a job and every coin they made was spent again just as quickly. It was a common enough trap, that Edmund had devised a name for it — the working rich.

When he was younger and still held a grudge over being locked in a crypt to starve to death, he had wondered why Matron hadn’t rid herself of the whole wretched bunch. Now that he was older, he understood: the Sadwicks, for all their…numerous potential scandals, had money, and they mostly kept to themselves; quiet and unobtrusive. In many ways, they were the ideal relatives.

“And how is Matron? As well as…ever? I heard you…um…graduated from Grimm’s with sub-par marks. Bit of a…a blow for the family, that.”

“It was,” Edmund nodded, secretly delighted that Pinsnip had missed the obvious advantage that being a secret-genius provided.

“Well, she…only has herself to blame,” Pinsnip shrugged. “We did try to…that is… we tried to warn her, all of us. Still you…you mustn’t blame yourself. The Moulde family is a…um…is quite a lot to handle.”

“It is,” Edmund agreed. “The Sadwicks have done well for themselves; I heard about Lucidania’s marriage.”

“Ha!” Pinsnip rolled his sardonic eyes. “To a…a flabby-skinned dock-worker with barely…half a warehouse to his name.”

“That half-warehouse is in Cliffside.”

“As much as I…appreciate the visit, why are you here, Master Edmund? Are you here to…pity my families social state? Or to bring me before a tribunal; a final nail in the Sadwick coffin?”

“No,” Edmund stepped further into the room, pulling the chair away from the table and sitting down. “I’m here to help you.”

Pinsnip blinked, and then blinked again. “To what?” He looked around, waving his arms. “Help me? I’m being held for…cowardice in the face of the enemy. I can’t see how you could…well…”

“Are you a coward?” Edmund asked.

Pinsnip didn’t bother to answer; it was not a question that needed an answer. Edmund knew Pinsnip was quite skilled at stealth, and had a good guess as to why. He knew why Pinsnip had vanished from sight when enemy soldiers had begun to fire their rifles. Perhaps most importantly, he knew how Pinsnip’s compulsions could be of great value to Edmund.

“All civilian arrests must be reported and filed,” Edmund continued. “If the report is never filed, then your arrest never happened.”

In Pinsnip’s eyes, Edmund saw the fury of a cat as a mouse scurried through its paws. “You have gotten older,” he muttered.

“You won’t be brought before a tribunal,” Edmund leaned forward, “the Sadwicks won’t ever know, Lucidania’s husband will avoid stigma of a dishonored military cousin-in-law, and you continue to serve your country.”

“Serve you,” Pinsnip translated. “Pah! Why on earth would I…serve you?”

“We all have needs. You especially.”

Pinsnip’s eyes flickered, the cynical dismissiveness vanishing like a fish into deep water. “I don’t know…um…what you’re talking about.”

“You won’t last for long in prison, Pinsnip, you know this. And if they let you out, sooner or later the police will find you. They’ll start asking questions, and the army might remember Corporal Scissors and what he did.”

“And you’re offering…?”

“An alternative.”

“Oh, are you? This should be…quite amusing. Time in…the hospital, perhaps? Send bolts of electricity through…through my brain? Burn my…my hobby out from under my skin?”

“No. I need someone with sharp eyes, who can move silently, and can handle a knife if necessary.”

“A very…pretty picture,” Pinsnip’s eyes were like slits. “I’d almost say it’s…well, it’s too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

Edmund reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pin. The figure on the pin was that of a prowling cat, stained black with a single yellow eye. It was small, so small that if it were pinned in the proper place on a uniform, you’d have to know to look for it to see it.

Pinsnip inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Rubbing his hand across his forehead, he stood up and moved to the table where Edmund sat. Sitting down again, he linked his fingers together and waited.

“There will be no official reports,” Edmund handed the figure to Pinsnip. “You will not swear fealty to the King, nor to me.”

“I usually…work alone. My natural inclination is…is towards a solitary job.”

“As far as you know, you will be.”

“Then…I won’t exist,” Pinsnip nodded, inspecting the tiny cat. His eyes glittered, the shine of streetlamps in the night and darkened alleyways reflected in their depths. “Why?”

“The war will not last forever, and when it ends I will have a great many useful pieces of information. Where to find the best deals, opportunities for wealth and power…”

“And you won’t keep them all to yourself?”

“I will keep them to me and mine.”

Pinsnip turned away, staring off into the yawning nights and cold shadows that lay between him and the end of the war. Edmund waited patiently, before his cousin spoke again, his voice distant. “My, my…To think that…that half a decade ago, you were cowering in my hands. Now you’re…hiring me.”

“Focusing you,” Edmund corrected. “Like I did with the dinner, and my arranged marriage.”

“And see where that…got us?” Pinsnip sneered. “Very well, Lieutenant. What is…Do you have a name for this little band of ours?”

Edmund stood up from his chair as Ung knocked on the cell door for the jailer to let them out. “The Black Cat Confederacy. I will be in touch.”

It should be noted that there are no primary nor secondary sources regarding any “Black Cat Confederacy.” If not for the personal diary of Doctor Worstrom Livingstone III, and the penny dreadful of the same name, there would be no evidence of any kind for eccentric historians to gossip over.

As such, the inclusion of Pinsnip Sadwick and the Black Cat Confederacy is primarly for entertainment purposes.

---

The day that Major Schtillhart was supposed to return, Edmund climbed the steps towards Brigadier McNaymare’s office at 4:00 pm and sat down next to Brother Bromard. They didn’t speak a single word to each other, and Edmund was very glad of that.

When his ever-wound watch read 4:25, Edmund stood up and knocked on the Brigadier’s door, flourishing the usual stack of papers like a white-flag.

After weathering the Brigadier’s assault of expletives, Edmund stood in the corner and waited while McNaymare signed and dated every page Edmund had brought with him. It had been a carefully selected stack, and if he had timed it just right…

Sure enough, the Brigadier had only four papers left to sign when Major Schtillhart knocked on his office door. Entering at all speed, the Major threw himself at attention and fired off a picture perfect salute.

“Major!” McNaymare stood, the last letters forgotten. “Ye’r report?”

“Sir,” Schtillhart maintained his salute, “After arriving at Princebridge on the Hamlettonian Flash at 6:25 pm, I called on the offices of Mr. and Mrs. Wickes. I was met by the manager, Mr. Forthmore, and…”

His report was clear, detailed, and well rehearsed. If Edmund had been the gullible sort, he would have accepted it at face value.

But Edmund wasn’t fooled. Obsessed with propriety, Matron had said. The Wickes would never accept a caller after 6 in the evening, unless they had been specifically invited.³ It was proof enough for Edmund: either the Wickes had formally invited Schtillhart to call, or Schtillhart was lying.

Any moment now, Schtillhart would provide a contract, some agreement that the Wickes had no doubt worked on for months. It would appear the perfect solution, giving the military everything they needed and solving a hundred problems at once. McNaymare would sign it, and then all would be lost…

“Get te ye’r point, Major!” McNaymare barked. “Did ye discuss terms an logistics o’ their supplying te army?”

“No, sir,” Schtillhart swallowed. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid the Wickes are quite insistent, sir. They will not discuss any military purchase or acquisition of Chrome unless they can speak to you, sir.”

Edmund blinked. Why? What possible reason did the Wickes have for holding back now?

McNaymare seemed equally surprised. “No? Do ye mean to say that ye went all the way te Princebridge, and come back wi’ nothing te show for it?”

“Not at all, sir. I did manage to acquire a sample.”

With a complete lack of flourish or circumstance, Major Schtillhart provided both the Brigadier and Edmund with their first glimpse of the miraculous Chrome.

It looked incredible.

The poet in Edmund’s soul gaped at the inert lump. The glowing sheen of the metal gave the impression that this un-areodynamic mound of metal might fly out of Schtillhart’s hand at any moment. It was a metal designed for fiendish tools of war. Any blade would be able to cut light off a reflection. Any rifle would spit bullets with the force of thunder. Oh perfect shard of distilled steel, / mirrored wall, or polished wheel, / Of silver, like; and lightning, kind; / No finer ferrum could I find.

“My word,” the Brigadier breathed, reaching out to grip the lump in his fist. “Heavy,” he tested the weight in his hand. “Firm and solid.”

“Gold is heavy,” Edmund said, “and useless for weapons or tools.”

“Aye?” the Brigadier blinked, armies of Chrome-armed soldiers vanishing from his eyes. “Aye! It looks bonny enough, but is it truly rust-proof? Strong? Fit for our armies? Send it te be studied so we can learn exactly what it is.”

Schtillhart took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we can’t do that, sir.”

McNaymare’s surprise was quickly overcome by anger. “What? Nay? Ye refusing a direct order, Major?”

“The Wickes are…insistent, sir,” Major Schtillhart winced. “They only gave me this sample under strict orders to never allow it to be studied. As Mercantilists, their ownership of —”

“I dinna give a thrice goddamn about Mercantilism,” the Brigadier exploded. “War is nay a political thing!”

Edmund almost choked on the absurd statement while Schtillhart cleared his throat. “The law is quite clear, sir.”

“Bah!” McNaymare waved his hand, “They canna’ bring legal charges to the army during times of war!”

“No, sir, but if they lodge a complaint, and as a result every mercantilist in Brackenburg refuses to do business with the army…” he let the collapse of the military industrial machine go unsaid.

“They’re deliberately trying te insult me,” McNaymare spat as he began his familiar pacing of the room. “Sending a sample for us te only look at!”

“I don’t think they —”

“Dinna argue wit’ me, Major!” McNaymare hissed. “The army has rules and regulations! We have mandates! We canna’ simply cave to the petulant demands o’ a pair o’ self-important inventors! Why give us the Chrome at all if they wouldn’t let us study it?”

Edmund studied Schtillhart’s face as the Brigadier continued to mutter his frustration. You don’t understand either, he realized. If the Wickes truly wanted to acquire a manufacturing base in the heart of the Fallows and supply the army with this new material, then why not provide the army what it asked for?

Were they not ready? A poor excuse; Edmund’s own manipulations had, quite inadvertently, given the Wickes the perfect opportunity. If they had given Schtillhart a contract for McNaymare to sign, they could have ended everything right then and there. They would be the Army’s exclusive suppliers of Chrome for the entire war.

But would the Brigadier have signed, not knowing what Chrome really was?

Like the final click of a well crafted lock, everything fell into place for Edmund. They didn’t need to cater to the Brigadier’s desires or the army’s regulations. All they had to do was convince the Brigadier to sign a contract. The Wickes were trying to make him earn a meeting.

In an old book in the Moulde Library, he had found an ancient saying: “never throw good money after bad.” He had long since crafted another axiom, one which was sadly destined to never reach the fame of its predecessor: “never convince yourself bad money was good.”

He had seen it happen before; when a strong willed person made a mistake, they were often unwilling to admit the fact. The more and more time, effort, and money flowed into a sink-hole, the more likely they would take any result as a victory, even if the most casual observer could see otherwise. And if a solution was offered, you could be sure they would never look too closely.

The Wickes were playing the Brigadier on a long string. They would continue to hedge and refuse until finally, they would provide him a portion of what he had asked for. The Brigadier would see this as the Wickes cracking, and in magnanimous victory, he would agree to meet with them. Then it would be too late; it wouldn’t matter what they told him, the Brigadier would be delighted. They’d put their best foot forward, and the Brigadier would finally see some results for all the time and energy he put into fighting the Wickes’ stubborn will.

Then he’d sign the contact. Of course he would. To not sign the contract would mean he had wasted his time. He wouldn’t look very closely, either, and then whatever the Wickes were planning…

“Ge about wi’ ye now,” McNaymare huffed, moving to his desk. “I have a great deal o’ things te do…”

“Lunch at the General’s Club, sir?” Edmund asked.

He wasn’t certain why the Brigadier gave Edmund the look he did — he wasn’t entirely sure what the look was — but Major Schtillhart spoke before the Brigadier could speak.

“Will you be discussing the matter with —”

“It’s nay business o’ ye’rs who I discuss anything with, Major!” McNaymare snapped, grabbing his riding crop and bringing it down on his desk. “I will give ye my answer when ye have it! Dismissed!”

When the door had slammed shut behind them, and they had walked only a few feet away, Edmund turned to Schtillhart. “Excuse me, Major?”

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“May I see the sample?”

“No.”

“I have a few errands to run near the Administrative Warehouse Department,” Edmund lied. “I could take the sample there and —”

“I said no, Lieutenant!” Major Schtillhart whirled on Edmund with fire in his eyes. “You seem to be under the misapprehension that you are more than a glorified clerk! Your job is to file what we give you to file and sign what we tell you to sign! This sample will be sent to the AWD in due course, and when I receive their written confirmation, I will give it to you to file, understood?”

For neither the first nor last time, Edmund found himself stymied by the Military mindset. The Founding Families — indeed, all of high-society — prided themselves on saying quite a lot of words without ever quite saying what they mean. This forced listeners to work twice as hard to understand exactly what the speaker meant. Irony, metaphor, and allusion were all tools the upper-class used to keep their brains working.

The Military, on the other hand, appeared to pride itself on saying everything they meant in as few words as possible. While this made an interesting and refreshing contrast, it also meant that subtext was entirely absent. Edmund couldn’t use what wasn’t said as a means to divine any hidden meanings.

It is important to note, however, that even without the added information that Schtillhart’s subtext may have brought, Edmund realized two things:

The first was perhaps the most obvious, and is thus included here more for the sake of completion: Schtillhart was not going to send the sample to the AWD. At best, Edmund realized, the sample of Chrome would be misfiled, land in a warehouse somewhere, and be lost forever to collect dust.

The second revelation was more interesting, and directly influenced Edmund’s actions going forward: Schtillhart was worried.

Not the typical worry of a Major who thinks their superior officer’s orders are detrimental to the success of the army, but a more tempered concern. A fear of something outside the typical order of things.

It only took Edmund the briefest of moments to understand. Major Schtillhart was afraid of the Wickes, like he was.

Perhaps he was afraid of their displeasure, perhaps of what they would do, but he was concerned all the same. It was the first suggestion that Edmund had seen that perhaps…just perhaps…Schtillhart wasn’t working with the Wickes, but for them.

If this seems a banal discovery, it is only because the immediate consequences were uncertain. At best, it meant that Major Schtillhart could be subverted, rather than overcome; If Edmund knew what influence the Wickes wielded over Schtillhart, he could manipulate them to his own advantage. Schtillhart could be an asset, rather than an obstacle.