The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 7

Edmund was a Moulde, and that meant he was not one to allow small obstacles stand in the way of what needed to be done; so it should come as no surprise that, after the lamp-lighters had all gone about their business bathing the night-darkened streets of Brackenburg with an jaundiced glow from the street lamps, Edmund left Filing Room B and walked out into the darkness, as casual as any gentleman out for a nightly stroll.

Subterfuge and legerdemain were reliable tools in the Moulde bag-of-tricks, and it felt good to dart from shadow to shadow again.

It is a common trait among humans that when they wish to divert attention, they always point in the opposite direction of what they are hiding. This makes it quite simple to find anything one wishes to hide; simply look in the exact opposite place someone expects you to look.

As a ABC clerk, Edmund received Schtillhart’s likely false administrative filing, submitting one (1) sample of Chrome, 4cm, 8.5 grams, to be stored in the Flitwork street warehouse. For reasons far too complex to explain, after reading this file Edmund was certain Schtillhart had hidden the sample of Chrome in the Illingsbeak street warehouse.

The streets were covered in darkness, the omnipresent black cloud hovering over the city blocking out all star- and moonlight. Edmund took to the nooks and crannies of Brackenburg like a fish to water, as comfortable as could be in the hidden places of the city. He had spent half of his life in the shadows, intentionally or otherwise, and returning to them after spending his days being Edmund Moulde, Heir to the Moulde Estate, Student of Grimm’s, and Lieutenant of the ABC, was refreshing.

Unfortunately for Edmund, his nightly business did not go as planned. When he arrived at the steps of the Illingsbeak Warehouse, the first thing he noticed were the two armed soldiers standing guard at the doors. Their eyes were not drooping and their stance did not waver. At first, Edmund thought they were statues. Then one coughed, and Edmund knew he would not be able to get into the warehouse through the front doors.

The sides? There were likely smaller doors around the side of the building. Would he be able to sneak between the buildings and unlock any door without anyone noticing? If they were guarding the front door, they’d surely be guarding the back as well.

With few other reasonable options, Edmund decided to risk it. Holding his head high,¹ Edmund broke from the shadows and walked across the street to the alley between the warehouse and the next building.

When he was certain he had not been noticed, he walked deeper down the alley, reaching into his vest to pull out his bent-key.

It was a new one, made during his time at Grimm’s to replace the one he had lost. It was stronger than the first one, with more delicate teeth and ridges. His first bent-key had been a half-hazard tool of desperation; this new one had been carefully designed with all the knowledge Edmund had accrued since to be a singular tool with a purpose: to fool any lock he could find.

Edmund made his way along the side of the Warehouse until he found a small side-entrance. It was not guarded, which immediately made Edmund suspicious. Why guard one entrance but not another?

Patrols, Edmund realized. Why have permanent guards when the ones out front could periodically check to insure the door was secure? Edmund needed to hurry, before it was time for one of the guards to make sure no one was doing what Edmund was about to do.

Ducking down, Edmund studied the lock briefly before inserting the two tongs of his bent-key. With the care born of practice and experience, Edmund began to feel the insides of the lock, crafting the shape and size of the missing key in his mind. He tested the springs, feeling the levers click back and forth as he prodded them, and was just about to start when the door opened wide.

Edmund looked up into the eyes of a Corporal. Ah, he thought in the split second before he ran. Or they could have posted guards on the inside.

He was half-way down the alley before the corporal had unshouldered their musket. He had almost reached the street when the two guards at the front door, drawn by their fellow’s cries, blocked Edmund’s path with their bodies.

Thankfully, while Edmund had indeed gotten much taller as he approached adulthood, his girth had not followed suit. Twisting and ducking, Edmund slipped through the slim opening between the soldier’s bodies. Their shocked cries vanished quickly as Edmund rolled upright and threw himself across the street and back into the shadows of Brackenburg.

He waited, hiding by a rain-barrel while the three soldiers performed the causal search practiced by all such night-watchmen when the suspect is out of eye-contact, and the risks of letting the suspect run were compared to the danger and effort involved in actually finding him. Edmund was not about to question their mathematics; it gave him a chance to catch his breath.

They wouldn’t have recognized him. He didn’t recognize them, after all, and he hadn’t been wearing his uniform. Even after only being in the army for half a month, he had learned that soldiers never looked at anyone’s face; they looked at the shoulders, both to see the rank of whom they were talking to, and also for safety in case they happened to be speaking with a Brigadier or General who considered looking-me-in-the-eye as insubordination.

Edmund rested his head against the nearby wall. He was entirely too old for this sort of thing. When he had been younger, he could have easily dipped into the shadows and doubled-back. He could have stepped aside while the soldiers ran past his hiding place and slipped into the warehouse unnoticed. In fact, he might have even heard the guard on the other side of the door before they opened it. He could have vanished before they even knew he was there.

But it had been ten years since he first became a Moulde. At the old age of seventeen, he had lost much of his subtle and supple body. He was nowhere near the invisible specter he had used to be.

Sighing to himself, Edmund stood up from where he hid and calmly made his way back to his bed in Filing Room B. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to break into the warehouse. He only hoped his inadvertent distraction of the guards had given Pinsnip enough time to do his work.

---

The best meeting place for a conspiracy depends entirely on what kind of conspiracy is meeting. For example; if it is a conspiracy to overthrow a rightful ruler or noted person of rank, the meeting must be held in someones house, preferably in easy eavesdropping distance from the servant’s quarters. If the goal is to overthrow a political party or societal mores, the coffeehouse is the expected locale, even to this day. Simple lawless activity resides in abandoned warehouses or dockside alleyways.

Military conspiracies are, for whatever reason, usually held in offices, if between officers; or in the forest or mud-trench where exercises are being held if enlisted men were the culprits. This resulted in a problem for Edmund; while he was technically an officer, Pinsnip was not, and there were no fields or exercise yards where he could disguise himself as a private to speak with him.

As such, the Black Cat Confederacy officially met, for the first time, in Filing Room B. Edmund was pleasantly surprised that he only needed to wait for five minutes after sitting down at his desk before there was a gentle knock on his door.

“Come in.”

Pinsnip entered, waving a salute that bordered on insubordination as he tossed the small lump of Chrome onto Edmund’s desk.

“Hard to miss, even in…the dark,” Pinsnip sneered. “Damn thing glints like…well…anything.”

“Thank you,” Edmund lifted the shiny lump in his hand. It was heavy.

Edmund nodded as he turned the Chrome over and over in his hands. After a moment, he looked up at Pinsnip. “Have you found any other compatriots?”

Pinsnip’s eyes narrowed. “Do you…really want to know?”

He did, but he also knew that knowing could be quite dangerous. Having Pinsnip as his only contact made everything much cleaner. He gave a quick shake of his head.

“Good,” Pinsnip gave a small cough. “If there is nothing else, I have…business to attend to.” And he was gone.

Alone again, Edmund took a deep breath. It was time to begin.

Setting the sample of Chrome on his desk, he pulled out a thick bag. To anyone else, it would remind them of a doctor’s bag. For Edmund, it was his own surgeon’s kit into the mysteries of the world.

He had designed the bag years ago, in his second year at Grimm’s. He had learned, after a particularly embarrassing month, that laboratory equipment was not always nearby or available. In acknowledgment of this, Edmund crafted a makeshift traveler’s laboratory, full of everything he would need to make a detailed study of anything he desired.

Opening the bag like a master pianist sitting at his piano forte, Edmund began to set glass instruments and small boxes around the lump of chrome. Tiny glass vials were opened and small measures of their contents sprinkled onto paper. A makeshift burner² was constructed and arranged appropriately. A foldable tube-spinner was set up nearby, along with an arrangement of various elemental minerals, all carefully labeled and tightly sealed in their glass bottles and metal containers. An array of metallic instruments, including tongs, hammers, knives, hooks, and mirrors were laid out like silverware at dinner. Lastly, the largest object in the bag was pulled out and placed directly in front of the chair: a notebook full of formulae, hypotheses, and conclusions; the sheet-music that would guide him on his experimental feast.

Opening to the first clean page, Edmund pulled a pen from his vest and carefully wrote out a preliminary study of Chrome at the top of the page, followed by the date, time, and location.

Where to start?

We have our own Damascus steel, burned in the forges of Brackenburg…

Rust-proof steel. Stronger. Lighter. Better in every way. Obviously, if the Wickes wanted the King’s Army to use the metal in place of steel, the place to start was to compare the two. Flipping earlier in the notebook, Edmund refreshed his memory as to what he had done to study steel earlier at school.

Quite a lot, as it turned out; it took almost an hour to review everything. Once he was finished, Edmund flipped back to the empty page and wrote a reference to his previous studies of steel under the date and time.

First was a simple scratch test. If one was stronger than the other then it would scratch the latter, rather than visa versa. Picking up the lump of chrome with the tongs, Edmund found the sharpest corner he could and dragged it across the side of one of his steel knives. Noting the effect, he switched hands and pushed the point of the knife into the chrome, to see how deep a scratch it made.

After he wrote down his findings, he moved to the next test.

He measured the depth of the dimple created when squeezing the metal with a specially designed clamp. He compared the color, arc, and volume of the sparks created when held against the side of a grinder. He held the metal over the Moulde Burner at three different heights and stared at the flames through a prism. He scraped small shavings into a bowl and watched how they melted when heated by flames with different fuels. He dropped shavings in vials of acidic compounds, and marked the time needed to separate the shavings into fragments, and then into specks, and then nothing. He noted the sound made when the metal was dropped from various heights. He measured the splash when dropped into a bucket of water, and noted how much water was displaced. He measured conductivity with a lemon and a small device of his own design. He rubbed it against his teeth, smelled it wet, damp, and dry, and he took copious, voluminous notes.

By the time dawn broke, Edmund had done all he could. He didn’t have the best tools, he knew, but he had done enough to be confident in his results. He finished up his work, making sure he cited the reasoning for all of his conclusions, and closed the book. He re-packed his portable lab, cleaning up the utensils and replacing the minerals in their bottles and containers.

While he cleaned, his brain whirred away like a clock. There was no doubt about it. Chrome was useless.

Oh, it looked amazing, but if it was rust-proof steel, it was only because there was barely any steel in it. The material was hard, but brittle. If rifles were made of Chrome, they would split open like bananas once fired more than a few times. Swords would snap in half at the most inopportune time. Armor would shatter from a single bullet.

Edmund almost didn’t believe it; if he hadn’t run the tests himself, he certainly wouldn’t have. The Wickes were trying to build a new Manufactory in Brackenburg. They had made promises to the Army. If they made swords and muskets from Chrome, only to have them fall to pieces on the battlefield, they wouldn’t escape with their heads still attached, never mind their Manufactory.

From every angle, the Wickes were looking like fools. What was their plan? To spend all their money making a Manufactory that would never be used? Were they hoping the war would be over before a single weapon was requisitioned?

No matter how Edmund looked at it, he couldn’t see how they expected to come out ahead. Their best bet, as far as Edmund could tell, was to trap the Army into a long-term contract and use some unknown loophole to keep making and selling bad weapons without consequence.

It was an old con, long since gone the way of the glass ring or the three-card shuffle. If you found a good mark, you could get a contract where you are still paid, regardless of quality, or even delivery. They pay the money agreed upon, while you don’t have to spend it to make a defective product your customer doesn’t want.

It might have worked, too, Edmund realized. He wouldn’t have put it past Brigadier McNaymare to let his gung-ho spirit overcome his rational skepticism, especially after the Wickes had dragged out the process beyond all tolerance. If they were lucky, they could have had the contract signed before anyone else had scrutinized the deal and done away with it.

But the Wickes weren’t lucky, Edmund smiled to himself as he put a clean piece of paper into his Typograph.

---

Edmund was, among many other things, an excellent study of patterns. As such, he was not surprised in the slightest to find Brother Bromard still waiting outside Brigadier McNaymare’s door.

The priest stood against the wall next to the door, eyes closed, as still as a statue. His breathing was slow and steady, his hands carefully wrapped in his cossak’s sleeves. Edmund softened his steps as he approached.

“Brother Bromard?” Edmund whispered.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Brother Bromard spoke clearly without opening his eyes.

On any other day, Edmund might have listened to his cautionary instincts, but today he had a plan. “The Brigadier may have time to see you today,” Edmund said. “If you wish me to, I can ask him.”

“Please do not,” Brother Bromard smiled. “I do not think he is ready to speak with me yet. I will wait.”

Edmund was not one to pass judgment on anyone’s patience, so he sat down without another word.

For a time they sat, in silence, neither willing to explain to the other exactly what they were waiting for. Then, Brother Bromard spoke;

“I must beg your forgiveness, Master Moulde.”

“Lieutenant,” Edmund corrected him.

“Two-fold, then,” Brother Bromard smiled sadly. “Lieutenant, I have committed a grave sin against you. For you see, we of the Order of the Holy Torch view rumor and gossip as a grave sin against man and god. To give an ear to words whispered in secret, words that are not spoken of in the blessed light of day is a cruelty. Hearsay is, after all, only a few letters away from heresy.”

“I too listen to rumors,” Edmund admitted, though he saw rumor and gossip as less a sin than a necessity.

“Then we are both seeking forgiveness,” Brother Bromard nodded, “but the whispers I have heard relate directly to you and yours. I have heard that the Mouldes…specifically you…have arranged a marriage between yourself and another.”

Like a glass of cold water to the face, Edmund’s attention was well and truly captured.

“I say rumors,” Bromard continued, “because while I thought the news came from an unimpeachable source, we in the Church have heard nothing about marriage arrangements, nor even the bride’s name. If you were to be married, it would be a great scandal if the Church were not involved.”

Edmund’s brain spun wildly. What was safe to comment on? What wouldn’t reveal too much? How did he hear about the wedding? The Founding Families wouldn’t have said anything. Does the Church have spies? What could he say?

In the end, he said nothing.

“So, of course, these are scurrilous rumors, designed to malign the good name of the Moulde Family.”

Edmund still didn’t answer.

“Lieutenant?” Brigadier McNaymare pulled up short as he exited his office. “What are ye doing here?”

“I have important information,” Edmund held out his report. “Regarding Chrome.”

“I said, I’ll have made my decision by the end o’ the week!” the Brigadier ruffled his mustache like a perturbed rooster. “I’m going to be late for Lunch at the General’s Club.”

“This may influence your decision.”

“Ye think I don’t have enough people trying to influence my decision?” The Brigadier’s riding crop spun above Edmund’s head. “First the Wickes, then the Major, and now you!”

“Major Schtillhart tried to influence you?”

“I am head o’ the LAL, and I will nay be influenced! I will make my decision when I’ve a mind to, aye?”

Edmund held out his report again. “I studied the Chrome, sir, and I —”

“You what?”

Experts agree that Edmund likely had not planned for Major Schtillhart to walk up the stairs at this very moment. Perhaps it was a miscalculation on his part, or perhaps his conversation with Brother Bromard had thrown him enough that he had forgotten to ask to meet privately with the Brigadier in his office. For whatever reason, Edmund found his report snatched out of his hand by a furious Major Schtillhart, instead of a frustrated Brigadier McNaymare as he had planned.

“You did all of this?” Schtillhart looked up from the report, his anger expertly masked by incandescent rage. “You found — you subjected the sample of Chrome to a battery of tests without authorization, orders, or notifying your superior officers?”

“Yes, sir.” It was fairly obvious.

“Sir,” Major Schtillhart turned a pained stare to the Brigadier, “May we speak in your office? This is a —”

“I’m late for lunch,” McNaymare shook his head as he began to walk down the steps.

“Sir, this is a vitally important situation,” Schtillhart pleaded as both he and Edmund followed after. “We need to discuss the —”

“What did ye find, Lieutenant?” McNaymare held out his hand for the report as they continued walking.

“Sir?” Schtillhart blinked. “Sir, I must protest —”

“Protest noted, Major,” the Brigadier snatched the report away, “but the tests have been done, so I want te know what they say!”

“Chrome is useless,” Edmund said. It was a drastic overstatement, but it suited Edmund’s ends well enough. This is not to say he wasn’t conflicted; The Wickes reasoning behind creating Chrome still eluded him. They were not fools. The alloying was smooth, binding the elements together took craft and creativity…why go to all the trouble if the result was so poor?

Slowly, McNaymares broad strides came to a stop at the base of the stairs, just in front of the City Hall’s main doors. “Are ye certain about everything ye wrote here?” McNaymare snarled, as he squinted at Edmund’s report.

“Positive, sir,” Edmund answered without taking his mind of the more immediate problem. They must have had some use for it. It’s so luminous…maybe it could be useful as a reflective coating? A replacement for silver-backed mirrors…

“Sir,” Schtillhart’s voice was tinted with fear, “I strongly advise you to —”

“What’s this ‘chromium,’ nonsense?” McNaymare asked, waving the paper. “I thought they called it Chrome?”

“It’s part of the alloy, the mineral they use to make the steel rust-proof.” Why chromium? Copper is a better conductor, nickel is cheaper to plate with, pewter is more efficient…

“Doesn’t it work? Ye say it would work here, aye?” McNaymare’s finger crashed onto the page. “It is rust proof!”

“So is clay, sir,” Edmund answered. But clay transforms from soft to hard, doesn’t it? Clay is useless for anything until it’s fired in a kiln…if there was some secondary process they didn’t subject this sample to…

“Aye…an ye say it would be just as useful. Split muskets? Shattered armor? Useless ammunition? Do ye have an explanation for wasting the Military’s time, Major?”

In fact, depending on the process they used to alloy the steel, if they used a magnesium flame…

“Sir, if I may,” Schtillhart cleared his throat, “The Lieutenant is a clerk, not a scientist. He performed his tests without scientific guidance or official equipment. It is entirely possible that his efforts either weakened the material, or that a miss-measurement gave him incorrect information.”

…It’s possible that a reduced ratio of chromium to steel might indeed prevent rusting while maintaining the overall strength.

“Aye? Is that possible, Lieutenant?”

“Of course it is,” Edmund said. It was a basic property of alloying metals. …And a rapid heating and cooling process could both break some of the chemical bonds while forcing new and stronger bonds to form…

“I should also say, sir,” Major Schtillhart cleared his throat again, “this sample was tested against the express wishes of the Wickes. If they were to learn we violated their demands, they may never allow us to purchase Chrome from them, and tie up the army with legal demands for months.”

“Or sever all supply lines, aye, they’re Mercantilists, I know.” McNaymare sighed.

Remove the dirt ’til the iron shines, / pre-treat the surface for a chosen substrate. / An electrode given an electric current / will cover the metal with chromium plate! Yes, he could do it! He could make a strong and stainless steel! It was simply a question of the ratio of chromium to steel, and the heating process by which…

“With all due respect, sir, it may be best to pretend this whole report never happened. As the Lieutenant admitted, the results of his study are suspect.”

Edmund blinked himself out of his thoughts. He hadn’t said that, had he?

“Nay. I’m not going to let this go,” McNaymare snorted, tugging at his mustache in his fury. “I’ve been hanging on te this for weeks, now, and it may be all just silly-buggers? For weeks I’ve been trying te get a straight answer, and they’ve no given us a bonny thing!”

“Best to forget about Chrome altogether, then, sir?” Edmund asked.

“Ne’er!” The brigadier shouted. “The army needs steel, Lieutenant, and I’ll be thrice damned for a fool if I don’t get it for our troops. If this Chrome be an answer, than by the King it be my answer!”

“But it might not be!” Edmund protested. His heart sank the instant his mouth closed. Fool Moulde!

“I agree with Lieutenant Mauve, sir,” Major Schtillhart drew himself up. “We simply don’t know enough. I think the most prudent thing to do would be to travel to Princebridge, meet with the Wickes, and explain what happened. If you apologize for the mistake without admitting culpability, Perhaps then they will provide more information, or accurate measurements.”

“Apologize?” McNaymare bristled. “I’ll no apologize for anything! Not when they’ve insulted the King’s Army every step o’ the way!”

“You aren’t going to visit them, are you?” Edmund asked, hoping against the inevitable disappointment.

“O’ course I am!” The Brigadier snapped, whipping his riding crop around like a sword. “I’m going te march down to Princebridge with a full escort and demand they explain themselves! If ye’re right that they’ve wasted our time, then they’re damn well going to get a bill for it!”

But that’s what they want! As soon as you get there Mr. Forthmore will be your friend, plying you with tea and biscuits. Then the Wickes will arrive with apologies and excuses, while lying through their teeth about this miraculous metal. All the facts will fade away and you’ll agree with them because that’s what you want to be true.

He didn’t say any of it, because as true as it was, he knew saying it wouldn’t change the General’s mind. In fact, nothing would change the Brigadier’s mind now. He was going to give the Wickes what they wanted; a face-to-face meeting. He thought it was to shame them, or demand results, but they would know it was because he wanted to be convinced. He wanted chrome to be the new miracle metal that would bring the army victory. He needed it, and they’d be happy to provide.

“Major Schtillhart,” McNaymare snapped his riding crop under his arm, the sure sign of a made decision. “Clear my schedule for tomorrow.”

“There is someone from the Church here to see you,” Edmund said, desperate for some distraction.

The stare that McNaymare gave Edmund was the stare of a fish being given mathematics lessons. “What are ye on about, Lieutenant? A Churchman? What does the Church have te do wi’ me?”

“He’s been waiting next to your door for a very long time,” Edmund said. And with luck, he would talk for a comparable length, to give Edmund time to consider what to do next. “You did say you would speak with him when you had the time.”

“When did I say that?”

“Multiple times over the past month.”

“Let him wait!” McNaymare waved his hand. “The Church can deal with the souls of the departed after we’ve departed them! Major Schtillhart, fetch me a carriage. I leave this evening!”

---

The Brigadier returned a week later.

Notice came at a quarter ’til one that the Brigadier had returned to Brackenburg and was currently making his way from the train station to his offices. Now, at 1:12 pm, Edmund approached the Brigadier’s office, along with the seated forms of Brother Bromard and Major Schtillhart.

Edmund and Schtillhart shared a quick look; the look of two pawns on opposite sides of the board, awaiting a checkmate that was well out of their hands.

“Any news?” Schtillhart asked. Edmund shook his head as he sat down next to them.

Schtillhart heaved a sigh. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

It is a poetic certainty that portents of the future are never comforting. The distant thunder which promises a storm, the faint sound of hoofbeats on a deserted path, the clearing of a parental throat, even the quiet sound of a spring popping loose; sounds that promise a future never promise a happy one.³ As such, Edmund was not comforted by the assertion that they would soon learn how the General’s trip had gone.

Falling silent, they didn’t say another word to each other.

It was the least formal Edmund had ever seen Schtillhart. His back, normally as straight as an iron rod, had relaxed to the more a more flexible oak tree. His hands shifted on his lap instead of resting clasped and confident. It was the most nervous he had ever seemed.

With nothing else to do, Edmund studied Schtillhart out of the corner of his eye, noting every shift and twitch, learning his body language.

Shame, Edmund recognized, and fear, and not a little bit of self-recrimination. Is this the posture of a willing servant, waiting to hear if his master’s have succeeded? Is he hoping with baited breath that the Wickes’ promised offer will come to him? No…he is not being paid, he is not being bribed; he is being Blackmailed!

With what?

At 1:21, The echo of Brigadier’s loud boots reached up the stairs to their ears. In no time at all, the stern face of McNaymare breached the top of the stairs as he marched towards his office. Brigadier McNaymare paused only briefly by his door, before turning to Major Schtillhart. “Major, I must see you inside.”

The door closed softly behind them.

“Would you care to pray?”

Edmund turned to look Brother Bromard in the eye. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so aware of the Priest’s concern, but there it was, as clear and powerful as sunlight.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Master Edmund,” Brother Bromard smiled sadly, “Forgive me — Lieutenant. I am not a fool. I know you have been…concerned about my presence here. Indeed, every time we have spoken, in spite of by best efforts to put you at your ease, you remain obstinate. I dare say, nearly hostile.”

“It was not my intent to convey that,” Edmund admitted.

“I am sure,” Bromard nodded. “It is not uncommon for people to feel…uncomfortable around men and women of the cloth. Especially those of us in the Order of the Holy Torch. Our reputation is not always a pleasant one. Perhaps it is my fault; especially when talking with landed-gentry, I find myself falling into old habits. Circuitous language, and such. If I may speak more plainly? I want to be your friend. Your ally, in fact.”

“Do you indeed?” Edmund asked, if only to buy himself more time.

“The Church is not an unstoppable juggernaut. We cannot dictate our will to anyone…but we are not without some influence. There are many doors that can be opened for you with but a word from one of our Fathers.”

“You have powerful friends?”

“The Church requires only one.”

“Why would you do this for me?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Bromard laughed. “We are not misers, ogres, or monsters, Lieutenant. We want what is best for everyone. For example,” he leaned closer, “I know you have been working to prevent Brigadier McNaymare from signing a contract with the Wickes.”

How did you know that? “Have I?”

“As I said, I am not a fool, Lieutenant. And, as I said, I am not without some influence. I have been waiting to speak with the Brigadier for some time on the subject of this ‘Chrome.’ I have been ordered by my superiors to provide appropriate guidance to the Brigadier, to insure he chooses correctly.”

Edmund opened his mouth, carefully crafting the words. “And what is correctly?”

“That is not up to me.”

Edmund stared at the priest, his piercing eyes shimmering as they held Edmund’s gaze in their grip.

When Brother Bromard was certain Edmund understood, he opened his mouth again. “I have learned more of your arranged marriage. Apparently…it was you who arranged it, almost ten years ago?”

“Yes,” Edmund said after considering all the ramifications of lying. “When I was eight.” He is bribing me. Giving me what I want…what I think I want, in return for giving him what he needs…

“Amazing,” the priest’s smile became delighted. “Impressive. Impressive and heartening to know that even at such a young age you took your duties as an Heir so seriously. I am sure that augers well for your future. You are planning, of course, to hold the ceremony in the Brackenburg Cathedral? I believe it is traditional.”

What can I say, Edmund’s brain spun. What does he already know? “The wedding is still some time away. I’m afraid they only plan that has been agreed upon is that the wedding must take place.”

“If that is so,” Brother Bromard nodded, “Then it will be held in the Brackenburg Cathedral.”

Edmund faced the priest. Persistence, he reflected, was a virtue. Patience as well. Cogs never got bored and decided to turn another direction. Belts that had loosened and springs that had weakened caused machinery to break down. Dependability was a powerful asset. It was interesting to Edmund, now being on the receiving end of the virtue, how troubling, not to say frightening it could be. He could feel the attack coming.

“We have asked many people,” Brother Bromard spoke in almost a whisper, “and it strikes me as odd that everyone seems either ignorant of your marriage or unwilling to say a word.”

“It is a delicate situation.”

“It must be. I believe — and belief is our stock and trade — that I know what family you are betrothed to. My brothers and sisters are skeptical, but I find credence to the idea that you are marrying one of the Rotledges.”

What dare I say? “The Rotledges and the Mouldes have been enemies for generations.”

“Yes, so I have been told, but when it comes to what the Founding Families tell me, I find I can be almost as skeptical as my fellows.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Edmund asked.

“We can be allies, Master Moulde, if you would simply trust me. Can you not tell me who witnessed the contract?”

Should I tell him? “It is not my place to say.”

“Or who suggested the arrangement in the first place?”

What does he know? “I came up with it on my own.”

“May I even know the name of the bride?”

Edmund paused.

The Church’s ends are not my own. I cannot risk becoming their friend.

“No.”

Brother Bromard opened his mouth in surprise. “Forgive my impertinence, but your refusal strikes me as odd.”

“I’m certain it does,” Edmund’s mind worked furiously, crafting his words with exacting care. “As I said, the situation is an odd one to say the least, and my family is nothing if not cautious. If I say too much, the wedding might be imperiled.”

“If telling the Church imperils the wedding,” the Priest’s mouth hovered over a frown, “that suggests the wedding itself may be…imprudent.”

“I assure you, were the wedding canceled, the situation would be far worse.”

Brother Bromard nodded slowly, and heaved a great sigh.

“Then, I am afraid, I cannot help you.”

At that moment, the Brigadier’s door opened, and Major Schtillhart stepped through the door.

“Brother Bromard, was it?” the Major’s face was ashen. “The Brigadier…will speak with you now.” He swallowed. “Privately.”

With a soft smile, Brother Bromard stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.