The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 8

Not half an hour after Wislydale left, Edmund made his way down the Moulde Hall elevator to the abandoned coal mine deep under Haggard Hill.

It had been almost seven years since Edmund had crawled through the tunnels under Moulde Hall. When he was eight, his cousin Pinsnip Sadwick had locked him away in the tunnels to starve; vengeance for Pinsnip’s failure to claim the fortune of the Moulde Family for himself.

But that was only his first foray into the depths. When he was older, and not under immediate threat for his life,¹ he spent a good length of time learning their twists and turns, and returning periodically to the tombs of the Moulde Family.

Now, he had a destination. With a speed born of curiosity, it took only a quarter hour for Edmund to climb his way through the empty tunnels. Turning left and right, he made his way through the mines to the place on the survey map where the tombs and the iron vein were closest.

Finally, he reached a small room. Perhaps in ages hence it had been filled with supplies and a cot for miners to rest on. Perhaps later it had been filled with valuables and keepsakes in a nod to the Egyptian traditions that had been so trendy. Now the empty room had succumbed to subsidence, and a full quarter of the room had collapsed, revealing the bedrock behind the walls.

Edmund knew about the different kinds of rock, the different qualities of sediment and the reflectiveness of various ores and gems. This stone…a vein of sedimentary rock pockmarked with pisoliths like warts on a toad…looked familiar.

This was not just iron ore.

Edmund was not a physical person. His body gave him all the mobility he ever asked for, and not much else. He had never swung a pick-ax before, much less labored beyond carrying heavy books in the library. He had not expected an easy time of it.

He was not disappointed. It took almost a half hour of lifting and swinging his heavy iron pick into the rock before he was able to pry away a significant chunk of the ore. His face was covered in sweat, his limbs were aching, and his breath came short and ragged.

He could have asked Ung to do it, but he wanted to keep this a secret.

After resting for a moment to catch his breath, he gripped the rock to his chest and made his way back through the dark tunnels, up the clattering elevator, and through the echoing hallways of Moulde Hall. In his own personal laboratory — built from mismatched equipment that he had found in old storage rooms and piles of junk in the basements — he began to examine his find.

As Edmund was skilled in all manner of experimentation. It only took him ten minutes before he knew exactly what the survey of Haggard Hill had found: a vein of bauxite.

His first thought was geographical: Bauxite? In Britannia? The rock was most commonly found in Oceania, and the Australasian Trapezoid Trade² had made many families their fortune.

His second thought was geological: Bauxite was a sedimentary rock, generally found close to the surface, mixed with various clays, iron, and most significant of all, aluminum.

His third thought was financial: If the shortages meant steel was more valuable than gold, aluminum was more valuable than diamonds.

His fourth thought was scientific. Aluminum was a fascinating element; In terms that the scientific community found absurdly sentimental, it was very friendly. It could be found everywhere, one of the most common elements in the earth…but never alone. It was always mixed in with other elements, oxides, and minerals, such that extracting the aluminum was as simple as removing the rum from a Christmas punch. The only method known for extracting it was the Waller process, which was expensive and inefficient.

His fifth thought was optimistic. He could invent a better method!

His sixth thought was legal. In an attempt to avoid loopholes, Wislydale’s contact stated the exact volume of the ore to be extracted from Haggard Hill, and if what he was really extracting was bauxite…Edmund had scribbled in his notebook, comparing densities and weights of the different ores, and double checking his figures twice before he dropped his pen and stared.

Half a million tonnes of bauxite. Half a million!

His seventh thought was analytic. This was no windfall. This was not a simple discovery of a new revenue stream for the Mouldes and the Rotledges. This was a fortune. Even with the inefficient and costly Waller process, the bauxite could make a family richer than the richest Founding Family.

His eighth thought was managerial, and composed entirely of Edmund drafting a letter in his head. He already had purchased land in South Dunkin, and was arranging for a factory to be built, but now he needed to design the factory very carefully.

His ninth thought was chilling: after marrying Googoltha, the bauxite would belong to the Rotledges.

His tenth thought was that it was almost time to meet with Matron Wight.

---

Matron Ganglia Wight lived in the three story palace of Hopsburg Hall on the northeastern side of the Ranskin district. Hopsburg Hall was the de facto home of the Wight family, even though Lord Wight currently lived (at least officially) in Westbrock Grange; the more ancient and traditional home of the Wights, several miles outside of Brackenburg.

Gossip and whispers suggested this had something to do with the volume of mistresses Lord Wight desired to partake in, but Edmund was far more certain it had to do with Matron Wight’s taste for consorts of her own.³

Edmund met Matron Wight in the central foyer, after being ushered through boot-closets, coat-rooms, and washing-cupboards like a servant. Edmund had to squint as he walked, as every inch the walls was covered in glittering gold, shining silver, and dazzling diamonds.

“Patron Edmund Moulde,” Matron Wight descended the sweeping staircase in a long golden gown, topped with a tall white wig that looked like meringue had been piled on her head. “I am delighted to finally meet you.”

“And I, you, Matron Wight” Edmund bowed.

“Please, dear, call me Ganglia.” She moved with the regal grace of a monarch, her steady pace betraying no sense of urgency or import to the occasion. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she held out a lace-gloved hand. “My condolences on the loss of dear Mander. I do apologize for not having the time to attend her Wake, but I also thought it might be considered…improper. I’m afraid we all know that I didn’t know her as well as I ought.”

“Few did,” Edmund took her hand for a moment. “She preferred to keep to herself.”

“So she did,” Ganglia smiled. “That said, I can only hope that I will live as long as she did. I’m almost half-way there, after all.”

Edmund didn’t reply as they walked through the mansion to the nearest sitting room, equally covered in gilt and glitter. Matron Wight ushered him to a chair by the fireplace, while she took a slightly larger chair opposite.

There was a moment while Edmund noted the subtle hints of patience in the old Wight’s face. She was waiting for him to say something, but what? He scoured his memory before realizing what she must have been expecting.

“I must thank you for your husband’s…assistance,” Edmund said at last, “with my Military Tribunal.”

“Not at all,” Ganglia smiled. “It was the absolute least we could do, I’m sure.”

“The least you could have done was nothing.” And it would have been better for me if you had.

“Could we?” Ganglia cocked an eyebrow.

Edmund didn’t answer. He had been expecting something like this ever since Lord Wright had left him in the officer’s lounge.

“I am not like my husband, Edmund,” Ganglia sighed, dropping her fan at her side. “I find little value in subtext, I don’t have time for proper etiquette, and I do not like to waste time, so please allow me to cut through the crap. The Wights, out of gratitude for your family’s aid during the Fishmarket Riots and providing material compensation for any number of conflicts over the years, are willing to completely and totally support your marriage to the Rotledge girl. Or to the Brocklehurst girl. Whomever you’d like. In addition, we will see that that the charges currently facing ’the Foul Baker of Rashinburg’ — one of your very distant cousins, I think — are dropped. We will sell you the owning stake we have in two of our factories in the Farrows at cost. Lastly, I will personally attend any three weddings and seven balls that you choose, with…pre-worn dress and accoutrement.”

Had Edmund not been trained by the best, his jaw would have dropped in astonishment. In the currency of social capital, Ganglia had just offered him a fortune.

Training or no, Edmund found he couldn’t sit still. He shifted in his chair as his mind worked furiously. The lack of subtext was unnerving, and he naturally found himself searching for it, even in Ganglia’s blunt language. Why on earth was she offering him so much? “A very generous gift,” Edmund said, carefully admitting no ignorance.

“Is it?” Ganglia cocked an eyebrow. “As I said, I prefer to speak plain.”

“Plainly, then,” Edmund linked his fingers together. “In return for what?”

“For relinquishing whatever leverage you have on us.” Her smile remained easy.

“Do I have any?” Edmund asked, more to delay his need to respond than any actual coyness on his part.

“Three families sign off on a marriage between you and a Rotledge? When the Rotledges would rather chew glass than give you anything?” Ganglia leaned back, the barest hint of frame showing from under her dress. “That whole little theatrical display wouldn’t have happened without some bribery or blackmail.”

Edmund’s mind drifted to the Writs of Investment that sat on his desk, hidden in the skull of Orpha Moulde. “I know we Mouldes are considered uncouth criminals by the Founding Families,” Edmund said, “but I hope to change your opinion of us…if you are willing for it to be changed.”

“Believe me, you have.” Ganglia shook her head, her smile now exasperated. “We Wights are not fools, Patron, and I will thank you not to think of us as such. We have paid attention — more so than most of the other families, I’ll warrant — and we know you have something on all of the Nine Founding Families. Well, I suppose only four, now.”

“And you want me to cash in this…leverage…on the Wights, now,” he finished.

“Correct. I did say I wanted to cut through the crap.”

“You have. Very effectively.”

“Of course,” Ganglia shrugged, “it was the best I could do, not knowing exactly what this leverage was. If you wish to renegotiate, I will need to know exactly what it is you have to offer us.”

Edmund was impressed. He had known Matron Wight to be pragmatic, but he hadn’t expected her to approach a possible threat by submitting so quickly. What made it most impressive was how by doing so, she was effectively undermining Edmund’s hold over her.

Was she the one? If he could tell anyone his plans, could it be someone who was savvy enough to preemptively bribe herself?

Even if he didn’t explain everything, she was offering him quite a good deal. There were a great many advantages to selecting which weddings would receive backing from a Founding Family, and which balls they would be prevented from upstaging… ’the Foul Baker’ was indeed a distant cousin, and avoiding that minor scandal could free Edmund up to focus on more important issues. It was enticing. There were so many good reasons for him to accept, for him to explain, to bring someone else in on the great plan, and help make sure everything went smoothly. She might be a kindred mind…

…And there was nothing more dangerous.

“I’m sorry,” Edmund shook his head. “You are most kind to offer, but I have other plans, at the moment.”

Ganglia’s face fell. “I urge you to reconsider. Or at least negotiate.”

“I’m afraid I cannot. At the moment, binding our families together so tightly does not coincide with my current path for the Moulde Family.”

“Ah,” Matron Wight’s smile was brittle. Edmund watched as her quick mind picked through what Edmund was saying. “Are you certain this is wise, Patron?”

It was wiser than giving up the only leverage he had. If he held onto the Writ, the Wights would have to play nice. They would never know when Edmund would call in the debt, and if they could afford to pay the price. They would need to stay cautious, and avoid outright antagonism.

And when he called in the debt, did they really want to risk him seeing them as a dangerous antagonist, or an ally who had regularly been faithful and dutiful?

“It is what must be,” he said.

“Then I believe there is nothing more to say,” Matron Wight stood, offering her hand once more. “I assure you, Paron Moulde, If this is how you wish for our Families’ relationship to continue, you will find the Wight Family to be a most reluctant and resistant ally. You may find us less a boon to your efforts than you hope.”

“I am counting on it, Matron Wight,” Edmund took the offered hand.

---

Historians are unable to pinpoint the exact day of Matron Moulde’s first burial,⁴ but best estimates place the event on the 10th of April, 1881, at 8:21 pm, two months before her second and more perpetual burial.

Edmund’s emotional state, especially during this period of time, is difficult to pin down. Many historians ascribe great sorrow and regret. Scientists and psychologists tend to assume he felt resignation, and perhaps even anticipation.

Poets believe Edmund was distracted.

To say that poetry was an important part of Edmund’s life is to perhaps misrepresent the facts. Poetry was Edmund’s life. For years, the inscrutable had been deciphered through a practical and scientific application of artistic experimentation.

Science and poetry; the two means by which he could understand the world.

Now, the poetry was silent. Words sat in his mind like…like things that sat. Metaphor, simile, even alliteration had faded from his thoughts. If he still had his poetry, he could have written a poem about walking down Haggard Hill to the ragged old hedge-maze at the bottom.

After all, it was there, ten years ago in the middle of the hole-ridden hedges, that he had found the back-entrance to the tombs of the Moulde Family. There, he had met the corpse of Orpha Moulde, dressed in ancient spiderwebs that burned away in the flash of sparks from his crank-lantern. It was there where he found the Writs of Investment; promissory notes from Patron Plinkerton, who had hidden the Moulde Fortune in the coffers of his enemies.

The nighttime sky was blotted out by the black cloud of Brackenburg, but the gas-torches were lit, providing illumination enough for Edmund to pick his way through the perforated hedge-maze to the statuary garden filled with crumbling marble statues from ages past.

When he was eight, the statues had been frightening; strange shapes emerging from the mists, looming over him like monsters. Now they were sad, frozen in time as time moved past, chipping off bits and pieces.

Like a new Patron without his poetry, Edmund saw brief glimpses of poetry about him, but they were brief and insubstantial, like brief and insubstantial things.

He was still distracted as he continued deeper into the maze, until he finally reached the spot where Matron’s Grave was to be dug.

Edmund had chosen the spot after hours of weighing the symbolic and metaphysical influences of several different locations. It would be easily overlooked if one didn’t know precisely where they were going. The headstone was small and simple, a tiny plaque for those who knew what to look for. To anyone else, it would just be a dead end in the maze.

To Edmund, it was a perfect end to everything Matron had meant to him. Each turn and shortcut, every step down Haggard Hill, even the walk around Moulde Hall meant something, if the onlooker had the inclination to look for it. It says as much in an entry of Sir Edmund’s single surviving diary⁵

There is a certain expectation when it comes to funerals. There must be mourning, more for tradition’s sake than the deceased’s. Those present must be thoughtful, mindful of the passing of one who has touched their lives so significantly. Also, while Matron’s wake had been a public affair, it was accepted that funerals were supposed to be more intimate; composed of immediate relatives, servants, and any one required by legal mandate to attend.

There were only five at Matron’s first funeral. Her faithful servants were there: Enga, the newest employee; Ung, with shovel at the ready; Mrs. Kippling, who had allowed the evening’s wash to wait for a less auspicious occasion; and — to Edmund’s surprise — the carriage driver had stepped more than two feet away from his carriage to hunch his tall skeletal frame over the small pine box.

When Edmund had taken his place at the foot of Matron’s coffin, Ung paused for only a moment before commencing the grave-digging. The sound of the shovel cutting into the dirt was like a sword to the gut.

He wasn’t ready.

But that didn’t matter. Matron was gone. The wake was finished, papers had been signed, letters had been sent…the entirety of the Moulde’s future was in Edmund’s hands.

Edmund watched as Ung dug the whole deeper.

Of course, nothing would actually change, as their future had been in his hands for months, but it was symbolic all the same; and symbols were what really mattered the most to the Founding Families.

With a final toss, Ung shoved his shovel into the ground and stepped out of the grave he had dug. brushing off his hands, he reached out to Matron’s humble coffin, lifted it into the air with both hands, and gently lay it in the ground like he was putting a child to bed.

It was supposed to be an ending, her funeral. It was supposed to be the moment when her story well and truly ended.

Her story wasn’t over yet. Edmund’s hand slipped into his pocket, where he could feel the thick letter from Matron, waiting to be read.

In lieu of a preacher, Edmund had asked Ung to say a few words. He had wanted to say something himself — it seemed proper, if not expected — but try as he might, he couldn’t get the words to fit together properly. His poetry was still missing.

Ung stepped forward, his clearing of his throat a deep rumble, echoed by a distant roll of thunder. A storm was coming, within the next few days, it sounded like.

Edmund bowed his head as Ung lifted his.

“Matron —” Ung began.

A soft cough broke through his speech. A burning surge of fury blossomed in Edmund’s chest. Who dared? He looked up to see the tiny shape of Mr. Shobbinton standing off to the side, his bowler hat held respectfully in his hands. From the look in his eyes, Edmund could see the situation was urgent.

Leaving the grave site, the two men moved a respectful distance away⁶ before Mr. Shobbinton began to whisper.

“Forgive me, Patron, but I’m afraid there are more papers to sign.”

“Is now the best time?” Edmund asked, his tone carefully pitched to insure Mr. Shobbinton knew the answer in his bones.

“I’m afraid it is the only time,” Mr. Shobbinton grimaced, indifferent to Edmund’s irritation. “There are papers regarding your prospective investments in South Dunkin, legal proceedings, financial…”

Edmund stared as the solicitor’s voice faded. As his fury faded, he recognized the look in the man’s eyes and for a brief moment felt pity.

“How long have you been the Moulde Family solicitor, Mr. Shobbinton?”

The little man carefully removed his monocle. “I was engaged by Matron Mander some forty years ago, and with her encouragement I supplanted all other legal experts hired by her family.”

“I will sign anything you like, once we are finished here. If you care to join us, you would be welcome.”

A look of abject relief flooded the man’s face. “Yes, Patron. Thank you.”

The two men walked with bowed heads back to the grave-site, and took up their places; but no sooner had Edmund’s feet sunk back into the soft earth, than he realized something was wrong.

Slowly, he raised his head, until his gaze met the hooded eyes of a robed priest standing between him and the grave.

“Step back,” the priest hissed.

Before doing anything rash, such as obeying a priest, Edmund took in the scene.

They had arrived without a sound, without Edmund even noticing. In the time it had taken Edmund to turn his back and speak with Mr. Shobbinton, they had swooped in and positioned themselves around the grave, staring down the servants and daring them to make a sound. They hadn’t, and that unnerved Edmund even more than their silent approach.

“Consecration,” the priest whispered, a voice full of holy strength, reverence, and cruelty. “This woman cannot be buried in unholy ground.”

“Mouldes have been buried on Haggard Hill for generations,” Edmund protested. “The Church raised no objections then.”

“Desecration,” the priest lifted his eyes to the dark sky, his voice rising and falling like a prayer. “We’ve seen your surveyors crawling over the Hill. Your heart is clear; some day you will commence mining operations, carving out the very rock of this hill, prying the holy stones from of its gullet and defiling its blessed self.”

A wandering priest passing by again? Edmund fumed. Unlikely. They are spying on me! “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am not going to mine Haggard Hill, and any surveying was not done by me.”

“The shadow-demon heralds coming heresy,” the priest’s eyes found Edmund’s again. “There was surveying, there will be mining. This Hill will be defiled, and to protect this woman’s immortal resting-place, we cannot allow her to be buried here. We will be her sacred guardians. We will prevent anyone from defiling her, even her family.”

Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it. He could see Ung eyeing the priests warily, his hands clenched, but not raised. He didn’t want to fight, and Mrs. Kippling was as still as a statue. Even the skeletal carriage-driver was glancing from left to right. Was he waiting for an opening, or searching for an escape route?

Edmund swallowed. “I demand that you leave at once.”

There was a pause, and then the priest snapped his fingers.

In an instant, his fellows produced swords, knives, and pistols from the depths of their robes. The weapons were brandished not threateningly, but with clear and unparalleled certainty.

“You can try and make us, if you like.”

---

Of the Nine Founding Families, the Wyldrichs were, without a doubt, the richest.

Not because of their thrifty natures — though they were thrifty — nor because of their repeated marriages to the richest and most royal princes and princesses of the world — though there were many such marriages — but because when the great struggle over the Coal beneath Brackenburg swung into outright conflict, the Wyldrich family quickly expanded into the vital industries of inn’s, taverns, pubs, and breweries.

For centuries, the Wyldrichs owned a stake in almost every flophouse, hotel, restaurant, cafe, and bar in the City. When the other Families’ miners climbed out of their holes, they rested in Wyldrich’s dens of clean straw and sour ale. When the fights broke out, they broke out in the Wyldrich’s establishments, and when the dust settled, remuneration for damages landed in their coffers. One way or another, however much money came the way of the other Founding Families, the Wyldrichs always managed to get a share.

This put the Wyldrichs in an interesting position. While all of the Founding Families were rich enough to never need to prove how rich they were, there were a great many expectations and traditions about how the Founding Families behaved. For the Wyldrichs, their ancient traditions included never needing to prove how rich they were, and were therefore mired in behaving however they damn well pleased.

Wailing Manor, built several years after Moulde Hall, had less than twenty rooms. The ceilings were less than a meter above Edmund’s head. The Chandeliers had no more than five spokes apiece, and were completely absent of dangling jewels, pearls, or ornate decorations. The entire house was built with a classical simplicity, completely empty of ostentatious gilt, ornamentation, or displays of braggadocios wealth.

The paintings were framed in simple straight lines. The statues were small, and stuck in the corner. The bookshelves were beeswax-varnished, and one was lopsided. If Edmund hadn’t known anything about the Wyldrich’s history, he might not have known that each bookshelf was worth more than all the houses in the Squatling district, and the paintings had been coveted by the nation’s art-historians for years.

“Ah! Patron Moulde!”

Edmund turned to see Patron Albadere Wyldrich, a slim man no older than Ung, stomp towards him in dirty denim trousers and muddy rubber boots. He stuck out his hand, gripping Edmund’s with the strength of a man who only cared about an honest day’s work.

His rough unshaven face grinned as he gestured to the nearby sitees. “Please, take off your shoes and have a seat. Dreadfully sorry about keeping you waiting, old chap. Bit of a spot of bother down in the ha-ha. Seems a cow got the damned silly idea to wander down to get a drink from the mud, and couldn’t climb out again, what? It’s all this dashed rain. Keeps the ground soggy, and the cows turn it to mud. Oh!” Albadere clapped his hands, the thought just occurring to him. “Can I get you a drink? We just opened a cask of our thirty-two. It should just be ready for drinking. I know they say Brittania is no good for wine, but I think we prove them wrong with our vineyards, eh?”

“Thank you,” Edmund nodded.

The old Patron clapped his hands on his knees, and hoisted his limber body back to a stand, wandering through the room towards the back of the Manor-house. “I know it’s before lunch, but I say the French have it right; nothing wrong with a glass of wine just after breakfast. I say, speaking of rain, how are the grounds on Haggard Hill? Getting enough water? Your butler…whats-the-chap…Ung! He still toiling away?”

“He insists that the flowers will bloom again,” Edmund called as Albadere left the room.

“Can’t fault his spirit,” Albadere called from the other room. “Tenacious fellow. Has some German blood in him, doesn’t he? Tenacious people, the Germans. I had a German maid, once, and she didn’t tolerate a speck of dust anywhere. Lovely gel.” A loud pop echoed from somewhere in the Manor. A moment later, Albadere returned with two glasses full of a ruby red wine. Handing one to Edmund, he threw himself back into his well-worn chair.

“Ah,” Albadere sighed with pleasure as he swallowed his wine. “Lovely Bordeaux, if I do say so myself, what? I hear the burial was yesterday? At midnight?”

Edmund took a sip of his own wine. It was good. He had never appreciated beer or spirits, no matter how often he tried to spend an evening in the Mothburn pubs. The taste was acceptable, but he never found himself quite drunk enough to make the experience worthwhile. Wine-drinking, on the other hand, was a perfect intermingling of expectation, presentation, foul taste, and pleasant after-taste that he was willing to drink whenever a glass was offered.

“Funny thing, I was just talking to Lord Chumbly the other day,” Albadere sniffed his wine again while running his tongue along the inside of his mouth. “and he mentioned to me that he’s seen a few priests running around his estate.”

Edmund carefully kept his face calm. Lord Chumbly owned a small villa in the Squatling district, close to Haggard Hill.

“Jumpy little chaps,” Albadere leaned forward, his shoulder resting on the arm of his chair with a creak. “Now, Chumbly’s a bit of a daft old codger, but his memory’s good, and he remembers seeing folks move about in the War like these priests were. He thinks they were ‘doing a reccy.’ You know, scouting the area? Looking for troop movements and safe ways to sneak across enemy territory?”

“They stopped the burial,” Edmund admitted, cutting to the chase.

“I thought so,” Albadere grimaced as he fell back into his seat. “Damned bastards don’t have a sense of decorum in their bodies. Not like the old days. Time was the Church would leave bloody well enough alone, but now…” he heaved a sigh, twisting the glass-stem in his fingers and watching the light play through the ruby liquid. “Thing is, it’s not just Lord Chumbly who’s seen the Church recently. Why, a priest came here the other day, asking questions about your upcoming marriage. Oh, he didn’t mention you or the marriage at all, but I could hear what he was really asking.”

It was easy for Edmund to imagine; the door opening to reveal Father Bromard, smiling pleasantly and shaking Albadere’s hand. Stepping inside and politely foregoing a glass of wine in favor of a glass of water. Did he walk with Albadere down to the ha-ha, and get his boots muddy?

“Now, I bloody well doubt that they’d be prying their sharp noses into your business if you weren’t hiding something. Hell, even I don’t know everything about who you’re marrying. Seems to me you and the Rotledges are playing your cards quite close to your chest.”

Edmund took another sip. Why did everyone try to use cards as a metaphor for scheming? Junapa had taught him the Persian card-game As-Nas years ago, and called it fit for children. Strategy was so easy when you were the only person who knew what your cards were. The games she taught him later, such as chess, made bluffing so much harder.

“The Church is resistant to my marriage,” Edmund said, carefully. “The Rotledges and I haven’t even decided on whether or not we will use an official priest for the ceremony.”

“Ha!” Albadere barked a laugh, slapping his leg. “That will set the cat among the pigeons, and no mistake! I have a few names, if you’re interested; two priests and a nun who are on the outs with the official doctrine. No one excommunicate, but it would certainly be a slap in the old mitre-and-gown.”

“I must say,” Edmund said, thinking of Father Bromard, “the Church is a definite obstacle, but I can’t say I hate them enough to deliberately antagonize them.”

“Hate them?” Albadere grinned. “I don’t hate the bastards, I scorn them. My family was making a living on this land centuries before the bloody Church of Britannia showed their rummy mugs. I say, if you want to take them down a peg, I’m bloody well with you!”

“You’re not just suggesting,” Edmund noted. “You’re pushing.”

“Of course I am!” Albadere took another swallow, swishing the wine back and forth in his glass. “You don’t think I’d even suggest it without a bloody good reason, do you? The Church of Britannia was established centuries ago with a good deal of input from the Founding Families. We needed an independent arbiter, you see, and we weren’t going to hand over our fates to just anyone.”

“The Founding Families founded the Church?” Edmund leaned forward. How had he not known this? Granted, the religious section of the Moulde Hall Library was mostly stuffed with old scrolls on economic theory, but even so…

“Well, in a way,” Albadere shrugged. “Of a sort. We had influence over the King at the time, you see. Of course, that was centuries ago, and now there’s not a Founding Family member worth their name who would dare enter the clergy. It’s just not done, you see. But, tradition is tradition, and the Church has influence, so we treat them like we treat any other competition. The church, the crown, the courts…they keep society running like a machine. They’re the rule-keepers, who tell everyone exactly how to keep the world turning; and we, the Founding Families, we are rule-makers.”

“Then why stop the burial?”

“Well, it’s not because they care about Matron’s soul; I’ll bet they held Ecumenical Councils about whether she had one. Make no mistake, Patron, them stopping Matron’s burial was cocking a pistol in your face. You’d best answer them, because if this isn’t resolved, a full on war against the Church is coming.”

Edmund stared at the old man, his eyes fierce. “Help me stop them. You must know how.”

“Oh, I’ve put my boot up the old mitre-and-gown a few times,” Albadere grinned, sipping his wine again. “And like a good little church, they’ve done their own share of kicking back, but I don’t know much more about them than you do. Besides, if I helped you, then I’d have to help all the other Founding Families whenever they needed it, and then where would we be?”

“Where?” Edmund asked. It didn’t sound all that terrible to him.

“Destitute!” Albadere laughed. “Can you imagine if we expected everyone to help each other out? Why, then the only way to win would be to help less than everyone else. We’d be in a race to the bottom, and everything that depended on our mutual aid would collapse. No more joint ventures, no more alliances, no more unity…Trust me, Edmund. Helping each other is the first step on a slippery slope towards the collapse of the Empire!”

“Then perhaps,” Edmund licked his lips, “I can persuade you.” With the care of a master jeweler revealing his latest masterpiece, Edmund pulled a small slip of folded paper out of his pocket.

There were only four other papers like it in existence. They were his master-strokes. His emergency option. If he had any other choice, he wouldn’t have used it, but he didn’t.

Albadere reached out, and plucked the ancient writ of investment from Edmund’s hand. He cocked an eyebrow as he skimmed the paper, and let out a small ‘hrmph.’ It was quite a substantial sum, and with the amount of interest that had accrued, if Edmund called in the writ he could have put a substantial dent in even the Wyldrich’s massive fortune.

“Will you help me?” Edmund asked.

Holding his gaze on the writ, Albadere reached into his own pocket, pulled out two of his own slips of paper and handed them to Edmund.

Two writs of investment. The Wyldrichs had also invested in the Moulde Family. Their writs were older, and both together amounted for far more money.

“No,” Albadere looked up. “No, I won’t. Your writ doesn’t mean a thing to me, Edmund, and I don’t like what it says about you that you think bribing me was a good idea. We are in this together, you know.”

“Are we?” Edmund had thought Albadere had been very clear about how together they weren’t.

“Oh, not in the actual sense,” Albadere waved his hand dismissively. “I mean on a deeper, fundamental level. We want the same things. You ever hear of the Thin Red Line? It was the 93rd Royal Regiment of Foot at the Battle of the Crest, back in…oh, 1450 or so. The regiment stood their ground against a charge of French soldiers, gave no inch, because they knew that if one regiment retreated, the war would be lost. United we stand, divided we fall.”

“United against the Church?” Edmund pried.

“Against everyone!” Albadere’s eyes flashed. “I know you’re no fool, Edmund, poor showing at Grimm’s or not. You can see as well as any of us. You know the only reason the Founding Families are still on top? Because no one thinks we can be taken down! Not by Kings, Queens, nobles, judges, or churches!” Albadere’s eyes grew cold. “I don’t give a damn about who you marry or what the Church thinks of it, but I bloody well want you to beat them. Not because I think you’re a nice chap — though I do think that — you need to win, because if you get scratched by the Church, if you are seen to be hurt by some upstart preacher and his band of thugs…well, that’s the bloody first domino, isn’t it? It may take years, or even centuries, but once people see us as touchable…”

Albadere swallowed the last of his wine, and pointed the empty glass like a wand. “Mark my words, Patron Moulde. If you go down, you’ll be taking the rest of us with you. And we will not be happy about that.”