Chapter 11
“Wonder of wonders!” Kolb’s face was a beacon of delight as he opened the door. “How delightful! When I told Ung I would eat in my room, I hadn’t expected to be served by the future heir!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t tell Wislydale the heir of the family is carting around cooking like a compliant courier. He’ll pitch a right fit.”
Edmund handed Kolb the tray, and then pulled out the letter. “This is also for you.”
“A mysterious message?” Kolb grinned. “A curious communique? A tantilizing telegram? I am honored, your humanitarian heir-ship!” Plucking the the folded paper from Edmund’s hand while he balanced his lunch-tray in the other, Kolb swept back into his room, letting the door close in Edmund’s face.
Edmund had only taken a few steps before the door opened again. “Master Edmund, please! Come inside!”
Edmund still hadn’t eaten yet, but something in Kolb’s strained voice made him turn back.
“It’s so nice to see you,” Kolb stepped aside to usher Edmund into his room, the letter crumpled in one hand. “I am elated to spend time with the future Patron of Moulde Hall. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Kolb’s room was a mess. The floor, chairs, even the bed was covered with pamphlets, rolled up posters, scraps of papers, and diaries of distant lands. They displayed marvelous vistas and panoramic views, or proclaimed daring feats or wondrous tales to be told by Kolberman Popomus, gentleman extraordinary. The room was covered in a massive patchwork of bright greens, reds, yellows, blues, and printed images of Kolb, his eyes like glittering jewels.
The posters boasted of massive climbing expeditions up dangerous and impossible summits and terrible journeys into dark forests with monstrous beasts and forgotten tribes. The paintings displayed Kolb standing astride slain elephants, crossing mighty rivers, and shaking hands with colorfully bedecked kings and queens.
“Are all these yours?” Edmund asked as Kolb strode into the center of the room, neatly dodging the piles.
“Indeed!” He laughed, spinning about with his arms encompassing the room. “I am filled with the awe of adventure! How can I not be absolutely appreciative of the abundant accouterments in this apartment? Speaking of —” he waved the crumpled note in the air. “Why did Matron send you here, with this?”
“I don’t know,” Edmund answered.
“No,” Kolb’s smile stiffened, “Of course you don’t. Forgive me for even asking.”
He stared for a moment, before his grin became easy again. “Well, so be it. I have a few tricks up my sleeve, still. Wislydale won’t know what’s coming.”
“Have you done all of these things?” Edmund asked, glancing around at the room again.
“Why yes,” Kolb beamed, his face glowing with pride. “I have traveled the world doing incredible feats, only to return home to tell the tales of my exploits, for a nominal fee, of course. Would you like to hear a tale of adventure from across the globe? How about my exciting escape from the Evil Earl of Edinburgh? Or how about my heart-stopping hunt for the heathen hierophant, high in the Himalayas? Or perhaps my miraculous meeting with the Malaysian Maharajah’s marvelous magician?”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh? Not my romantic rendezvous in the Red Rotunda of Russia, I hope? I’m afraid you might be too young for that one…”
“No,” Edmund shook his head. “I haven’t eaten yet, and I still have quite a lot of Moulde Hall to explore.”
“Master Edmund!” Kolb gasped. “I hope you don’t take my inclination to ingest my meals independently of fellow individuals as an indictment of your company! I would love to have you as a guest for lunch! You could share my soup!”
“No, thank you.”
“I insist!” Kolb snatched tore off a piece of rock-like bread from the tray, dipped it into the soup and stuffed it into his mouth. “Mmm… You quite simply cannot allow me to fall upon this fine food without a friendly face to facilitate my feast.”
“Why do you talk like that?” Edmund asked.
Kolb’s smile widened. “We none of us can help how we are made, Master Edmund,” he gave a stiff bow. “While I am proud to count myself among the Moulde family through my dear late-wife, I am also glad to say I was passed by when the Mouldes were given stiff spines and strained sphincters. No, I was blessed, as a Popomus, with the gift of gab, the love of loquacity, the virtue of vocabulary, and the essence of elocution.”
“But Wislydale talks as much as you do,” Edmund countered. “He still doesn’t sound like you.”
“The most damning of all faint praise,” Kolb winked before he closed his eyes like he was sampling a fine wine. He stretched out his hands, fingers spread. “Ah, my penchant for poetry! Is there a piece of the poet in you, my lad? A bit of the bard? A lick of the lyricist? A whit of the wordsmith?” Kolb spun through the room like a dancer. “Poetry is everything, my lad. Every word has at least one meaning but a thousand flavors! Take ’love’, for example: the love between a boy and a girl is not the same as the love between a man and his hounds! And the love of one’s hounds is different when running with them through bracken after a fox, then when they are curled up at your feet next to a fire in the dead of winter! And the love of a spicy steak, broiled to perfection, next to a steaming pile of potatoes with butter melting down the soft and cloud-like mounds as the summer sun beats down on your plate is not the same as the love of a sweet and succulent chicken breast with a crumble of nuts and lemon dancing across your tongue while the subtle scent of a Sauvignon curls in your nostrils and the autumn breeze tussles your hair…”
Kolb’s his eyes snapped open. He relaxed as though coming out of a trance.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, straightening his shirt. “I am awfully tired of soup.”
“She does make a lot of it,” Edmund admitted, wondering what the strange foods Kolb had mentioned were.
“It’s all she knows how to make!” Kolb’s eyes rolled about his head. “She’s a fine maid, I’m sure, but I have never heard her cuisine lauded as a culinary delight — excepting myself, of course.”
“Do you lie a lot?” Edmund asked.
“I never lie!” he said, his face pained. “Adjust the truth, sometimes. Flatter, perhaps. I have even been know to exaggerate minor details for the value of entertainment, but I never lie! It’s incredibly bad form.”
“I imagine you’d have trouble keeping them all straight, too.”
Kolb’s head snapped around to lock his gaze with Edmund. The bright elan of his eyes had sharpened to a cold stare. “I must say, Master Edmund, you are learning quite a lot about what it means to be a Moulde… Did Tunansia give you that line? Or Pinsnip?”
“No, it’s mine,” Edmund clasped his hands. “I write poetry too; I know how to read between the lines.” It was a bluff, but not much of one. In truth, he had been lucky his jab had struck home, but he was glad all the same.
“Well then,” Kolb growled, his blue eyes flashing as his body began to uncoil like a tiger. “If the truth is your goal, then the truth you shall have: Theatre, my boy! Smoke and mirrors. All the big families in the city — indeed in the country — are lying a constant lie! A lie most beautiful, to curl about their ears and reassure them that the world they live in ticks on; that their clock has not run down and their lives are useful and significant. That they remain towering powerhouses to be respected and admired, rather than fossils and curios to be mused at and tittered over.”
He leaned closer, voice low and eyes narrow. “There is only one difference between them and us, Master Edmund. You and I know it’s a lie! The world has moved on, leaving the old ways in the dust like a train speeding off into the setting sun. The old families have no place in the new world, and the idea terrifies them! Especially Matron; she’s going to do everything in her power to keep everything the way she likes it, and she’s got a game a mile long. I don’t think any of us have even an inkling of what her endgame might be. You’ve been here…what, four weeks now?
“And a half,” Edmund corrected.
“Well, that’s certainly long enough for you to notice she’s not a happy person. She simply cannot accept the future that lies before her, and so she struggles against it like a trussed-up animal, clawing and biting at anyone who tries to help. She hates everything new; even new people, like yourself.”
It was true, Matron had never spoken particularly kindly to him, but Edmund had never heard her speak kindly to anyone. And yet, during their tea in the rain she had made it clear that she was desperate for something new to happen to the family, and whether or not she hated Edmund, she needed him.
“Of course, everyone is allowed to like or hate people however they wish,” Kolb waved a hand dismissively, “but it makes it hard to get in her good graces. She’s hard to get along with, my lad, and easy to anger. Take my advice boy, and come with me to Africa. Get away from this world, and go where you will be happier.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Edmund shook his head, “but I don’t think I’d be happy being a Popomus.”
Kolb blinked in surprise. “Really? Well, you’re stuck here then, I’m afraid, and that’s hard luck for you…” He strolled around the room, his feet neatly sidestepping the discarded posters and papers that littered the room. After a moment, he clapped his hands, spun about, and pointed a finger right between Edmund’s eyes.
“Eureka!” He shouted, a manic grin plastered over his face. “There’s nothing for it, my boy! We must begin your training!”
“Training?” Edmund wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.
“Yes!” Kolb resumed his pacing, moving faster and faster through the detritus that surrounded them. “If you have to match wits with the old crone, you’ll also have to match words! She’ll dance circles around you if you’re not quick on your feet. You must let me teach you the finer points of conversation! By the time we’re done with you, you’ll have Matron wrapped around your little finger! You’ll be making her do back-flips, somersaults, and pirouettes on command!”
Edmund was skeptical, but it was true that when Kolb was speaking, everyone else fell silent. “Why would you help me?” he asked, still cautious.
“Because you’ve impressed me, lad. You haven’t run away yet, which means you are either stubborn or stupid; the two hallmarks of a true Moulde. You even struck a verbal blow when I underestimated you…and I learn from my mistakes.”
“Also,” he continued, his wide staring eyes glittering in the dim light, “if there’s one thing I believe more than anything in this world — and I’ve seen wonders that most civilized men would scoff at — it’s that all the best laid plans of the wisest among us can fail through a single roll of the dice. I aim to give you something now so that someday, if I need help, I can expect a favor in return. Deal?”
It took two hours before Kolb was satisfied with Edmund’s progress.
Kolb taught him breathing exercises that he had learned from Tibetan Sherpas, and stretches he had learned from Indian fakirs. He had Edmund make silly faces that pushed his mouth around his face, and silly noises that caused his nose to itch.
All the while, he poked and prodded Edmund’s side and back in painful places while talking about flattery, modesty, and savior-faire. He spouted advice on how to charm and amuse people. He made Edmund push out his stomach when he breathed, taught him how to use the muscles in his mouth, and showed him how to push his voice through his lips like he was shouting though a cave.
Then, Kolb had Edmund rattle off the titles of his posters and expedition diaries as fast as he could. He made him recite alliterative nonsense poems without tripping over the words. They were difficult, but after a while Edmund could feel his mouth and tongue dance around the words like raindrops instead of slogging through them like mud. Kolb was pleased, and extracted a promise from Edmund to return every Tuesday to continue the lessons.
As it turned out, Kolb wasn’t the only person who saw potential in Edmund. Edmund found the second one the very next day as he was exploring the locks and hallways of Moulde Hall.
The person was behind a door as wide as any of the other doors in the Mansion, and its ornamentation was comparatively simple. It took the better part of a quarter-hour before he had solved the delicate but complex lock and pushed the door open into a brightly lit and surprisingly clean game room.
Edmund had found four other game rooms already. They were full of stuffed tiger heads, huge antlers, mounted butterflies, and none of them had been locked. This room was nothing like the others; the mounted heads were mangy and misshapen, like their skulls had been crushed. One was little more than a skull with some patches of black leathery skin. A single antler as big as a boat hung from the ceiling. The furniture’s legs were all mangled animal legs — some equine, some canine — and one footrest looked like it was made from a hippo’s hoof.
Edmund scarcely had time to take it all in before he heard a sigh.
“Well, since you’ve opened the door, you might as well come inside.”
Junapa was sitting quietly in a tall green-leather chair, a small book in her hand. She delicately licked the tip of her finger and turned a page.
Edmund stepped into the room and closed the door. When the latch clicked, she looked up, a pale-blue sweet sizzling behind her eyes.
“Mrs. Knittle,” Edmund greeted her as politely as he could.
“It’s been a long time since anyone in this family called me Mrs. Knittle,” she said. “Mrs. Junapa is appropriate for family.”
“Mrs. Junapa,” Edmund nodded. His eyes drifted to the book in her hands. “What is that you are reading?”
“It is a book unfit for young children. I must say, I am surprised to see you here. I can only assume you have been exploring Moulde Hall; quite thoroughly too, if you can open locks.”
“I have,” Edmund said. “I thought there wasn’t anyone in this room. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have unlocked it.”
Junapa nodded slowly, and turned another page in her book. “I wonder if you would indulge my curiosity, and tell me how you unlocked the door?”
Edmund raised the bent-key in his hand.
Junapa glanced up. “I destroyed all the keys to this room, save my own; I value my privacy greatly. It would displease me if anyone else decided to bother me. Do you understand?”
He did.
“Very good,” her faint smile returned to her face. “I should go back to your explorations, then. There is much in Moulde Hall that can distract you.”
“Yes,” Edmund said. “I’m sorry for stalling the study of your story.”
“Stop,” Junapa snapped as he turned to leave.
Edmund turned back, his eyes meeting her scrutinizing glare. For a moment she simply stared deeply into Edmund’s eyes, searching for something. Edmund was afraid she was preparing to slap him, but finally she flicked a red ribbon into her book, closed it, and set it aside.
“I was rude, just now. Please, stay a moment and talk. I imagine you wouldn’t mind providing me some company?”
Kolb had, in fact, mentioned the importance of ‘providing company’ as a method of ingratiating oneself. Edmund was delighted; he had no idea Kolb’s lessons would become so useful so quickly.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, and immediately felt foolish.
“Reading,” she said, her tone making it clear she agreed.
“You’re Matron’s cousin once removed, right?” Edmund desperately tried to redeem himself. “From her mother’s side?”
“Correct,” she gave a short nod.
“Why did everyone introduce themselves like that? How they were related?”
Junapa’s head cocked slightly. “It saves time. There are so many alliances and feuds in the family, it’s easier to simply say how you’re related to whomever you’re meeting rather then work out whether you’re supposed to like or hate someone just from their name.” She thought for a moment. “Of course, most everyone hates everyone else, so I suppose it’s mostly a way of keeping score.”
“Score of what?” Edmund asked.
Junapa’s smile returned. “Oh, my poor boy, you really are going to be devoured alive, aren’t you?”
“No,” Edmund stuck out his chin. “I’m going to be Patron.”
Junapa’s sudden laugh was quiet and musical, flitting about the room like a butterfly. She shook her head, and reached for her book again.
“I doubt that, master Edmund.” she gave him a mockingly sympathetic look. “I doubt very much there will be much of an estate left for you to inherit.”
“Why?”
“Because I am going to take it out from under you, of course,” she smiled kindly. “Or if, through some miracle, I don’t, someone else will. Matron is smart and crafty as a fox, and she’s kept a corroding house standing for fifty years; but crafty as she is, there are many of us and only one of her. She can’t fight us all off, even with your…help…and if she were intelligent, she wouldn’t want to; she’d hand the estate over to me and I would save it from dissolution.”
“She seems intelligent to me,” Edmund said. “Why don’t you let her keep running the estate if it has done well for so long?”
Junapa looked up, her smile twisting slightly. “Surviving is not the same as ‘doing well,’ as you so crudely put it. The estate has been declining steadily for seven generations, and while I do credit her for arresting it’s collapse, she is old. She will die soon and if she doesn’t give the estate to me, any gains she may have made will be lost. Even if she doesn’t die for another twenty years, it’s time for her to abdicate. It’s a whole new world outside of those doors, and not one of you know what’s out there; what’s lying in wait for a sick and weak family to stagger away from the pack.” Her gaze drifted over the room, resting on the skeletal remains of animals long past. “We must remain strong to keep the predators at bay,” Junapa gestured aimlessly at Edmund, “and Matron is fighting a war against riflemen with a blunt wooden stick and some wet string.”
“So you want to save the family?”
“My dear Master Edmund,” her black eyes glittered. “The family can go rot. I want to save the Moulde estate — and remember, an estate that I have saved will look very different from one someone else has saved…”
Junapa paused, looking at Edmund with a curiously calculating look that reminded him uncomfortably of Matron. Then, with a subtle shake of her head, she slipped her book into a hidden pocket in her dress, stood up, and walked to a small table at the other end of the room. Not knowing what else to do, Edmund followed her.
“Do you know anything about strategy, Master Edmund?” she turned to face him. “Are you familiar with the war histories of ancient Greece and Asia?”
Edmund shook his head.
“Thousands of years ago, wars were fought with hundreds of warriors on wide open deserts at the behest of kings and queens long since forgotten to history. The victors always told their tales, but the best ones — the very best — explained themselves so other great men and women who lived long after they were dead could make use of their knowledge. It was a form of continuing their conquests after their death, I presume. What does it matter which body commands the army, if the war was won with the same mind?”
With that, Junapa turned around and sat at a strange square table. The top of the table was covered with an alternating black and white marble pattern. Different colored lines created squares on top of this design, creating the odd illusion that the table was sinking in on itself.
She reached under the table and produced a small box filled with circular disks. They had strange symbols on them, some in red, others in blue. All of them were black on one side and white on the other. She dumped them out onto the cloth and began to arrange them. After a moment, she gestured at the other thick chair, bidding Edmund to sit.
“Have you ever played draughts before?” she asked. Edmund had seen children playing it at the orphanage but never bothered to learn. “The game is a good place to start. You may only move one piece forward, diagonally, one space at a time. Your goal is to remove all of my pieces, and you remove them by jumping over them — again, diagonally — and you may jump as many times in one turn as you can. We will not use the whole table for this game, only the squares inside this large red line. You may also ignore the designs on the pieces, they are used for different games. Do you understand?”
“Why are you teaching me draughts?” Edmund asked, fingering one of the small ivory disks she had placed in front of him.
As fast as a striking snake, Junapa’s hand reached out to gasp Edmund’s fingers in a vice-like grip. “I am not teaching you draughts,” she said, her dark eyes boring into Edmund’s. “If anyone asks, I am not teaching you anything at all. Do you understand?”
“You want me to lie,” Edmund nodded.
Junapa’s firm mouth twisted. “No, it is not a lie. However, if you pay attention very carefully, you may be able to learn. And what you learn may be far more useful than the rules of a simple game.”
Edmund stared at the board as Junapa extended a long thin finger and pushed one of her pieces forward.
“Why are you letting me learn from you?” he rephrased his question.
Junapa smiled. “Because I am going to save the estate, and I don’t care which body wins the war. Enough stalling; it’s your move.”