The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 17
Edmund was not one for pacing. Even later in life, he found the idea that expending energy to move with no particular aim in mind an unreasonable, if not absurd, notion.
Composure. Stillness. Calm. Pause. These were the words of one focused on thought.
Edmund was pacing.
He had thought already. He had made his decisions, focused his efforts…things were in motion. There was little point in more thought when he could do little to affect the coming course of events. He knew what Wislydale would do, he knew what the Church would do, he knew what the Founding Families would do…
But even the wisest cannot craft perfect plans without all the information.
Edmund paused in his pacing to stare at the single sheet of note-paper he had written during the night. The problem was spelled out in plain and perfect language. A moment more of thought was all Edmund needed before he resumed his steady pace, burning away the excess emotion that threatened to hinder his efforts. He needed to stay calm.
This was remarkably inconvenient for Edmund, as the announcement ball was now only four days away. Every minute spent was another minute wasted.
This is not to say Edmund was idle. Historians have conclusive proof that two letters he wrote during this period were instrumental in the mass-production of the self-rearticulating seals that proved essential for the modernization efforts of Ninnenburg; a process that would have been lucrative for the Moulde Family’s new aluminium business. There is no telling how many letters he wrote, or how many events he influenced, but he knew none of that would matter if he lost his aluminium.
So, his heart leapt as Enga approached him that afternoon, silver tray in hand with a letter rested on top. He tore open the letter with uncharacteristic passion, eager to learn what had happened in South Dunkin.
Dear Patron Moulde, the letter read,
I cannot express how delighted I was to receive your letter. It has indeed been some time since that fateful day, and in the intervening time I have seen much, and learned more.
/I am able now, with the benefit of perspective, seen the subtle strings you slipped through my besotted self-pity. I know why you said what you said, and I cannot blame you for it. You played me well, made me dance, and put me precisely where you wanted me to be.
I dearly wish to be angry with you, but I find myself numb to my former passions. Regret and hatred seem so petty to me now, so inconsequential. It comes with the territory.
Yes, I have found my people. I live now among fellows who recognize the absurdity of this world you are so devoted to. Even in your apology to me you extol the importance and virtue of the Moulde Family; an institution you know as well as I has rotted perhaps only more visibly than the other upper-class, if not more pungently. A collection of terrified men and women who care more about certainty of their significance, rather than embracing the truth.
I cannot blame you. I myself, in my youth, thought I knew the truth of it. I saw the smoke and mirrors that the gentry used to proclaim their own importance, but in my ignorance I thought this pageantry masked a deeper meaning, a hidden truth that could be found in far off lands, hidden temples, or thick jungles away from the pretense of civilization. Why else would my tales in music halls attract such crowds? Such adulation?
I know now it is because they served the same purpose. Not to mask a hidden truth, but to provide a distraction from the absence of any meaning.
My fellows and I are of a single mind in this. What use is a society that can create the horrors and absurdities of the Great War? What purpose is served by the bromides of ballet and chamber music, so formulaic they can be performed by clumsy machines? What value is there in a civilization that divides us into the valued idle and the disposable belabored? In fact, I can think of only one use of War: it has given us the courage to stare this absence of meaning in the face, and embrace it.
I will not protect your factory. Is it even a factory? It has no machines, nor signs, nor anything to give it purpose apart from your intent. We have intent as well, and we are not concerned with yours.
I have, however, procured excellent legal representation, as you suggested. I thank you for the advice, and I will put it to good use.
I hope that I, as your pawn, served you well enough in your turn. I wish to part on good terms, and will therefore forgive you and your actions. I only hope you find peace as I have.
If I see you again, I shall kill you.
Sincerely, Kolberman Popomus
Edmund set down the letter. “Enga, please fetch me a newspaper.”
“Of course, Patron. Which paper would you prefer?” It was not an unreasonable question. Edmund had discovered uses for seven of the many periodicals that covered Brackenburg, and depending on what information he required, a different newspaper was likely to provide it.
“Any. Whichever you find first.” If he was right, it wouldn’t matter which.
It took almost half an hour for Enga to return from Brackenburg with a copy of the Brackenburg Gazette, a period of time that was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable in Edmund’s life.
“To be on the knife’s edge,” he wrote later in one of his few surviving diary pages, “and not know if everything you have planned for has fallen to ruin or not. To see the eminent collapse of all your schemes, and prepare to deem all your previous life wasted…it is a sensation sought after by thrill-seekers, con-men, and the insane. I myself found no appeal in the sensation, and wash my hands of it.”
Edmund opened the paper, and found what he was looking for on the second page.
The article was unimportant. Details and intricacies that did little more than solidify the narrative created by the picture and headline.
The picture was of his factory. The headline proudly proclaimed: Empty Factory Home of the Avant-Garde.
His factory had been commandeered by a colony of artists. Musicians, painters, poets, and actors who saw the empty building as a perfect center for their movement. Co-opted by the revolution, his factory was now theirs.
There was a picture. A picture of his factory covered with graffiti, murals, and notices of artistic performances every hour on the hour. In his factory.
They would see it. Everyone would see his factory as a home of the rebellion. He would be forever tarnished with the name of agitator. Edmund Moulde, Father of the Abusrd.
He needed to act. He needed to stop them, once and for all with a finality of the wrath of a Moulde. A public showing, with soldiers and police dragging the peasantry and the artistry from the factory and tossing them into the streets. He needed to clear his name with a disavowal that was public, authoritative, and above all, violent.
Edmund closed the paper, and grabbed his pen from his pocket. Tearing a page from his notebook, he began to write to the Mayor.
Edmund checked his ever-wound watch. Three days until the announcement party. He still had time.
It was a weak affirmation. He had time, true, but hardly enough of it. Speed was of the essence, and in this situation he could only achieve speed through strength.
He needed to speak with the Mayor with force and determination. He needed to storm into the Mayor’s office like a whirlwind, throw the not insubstantial weight of his family name about like an anvil, and grind his opposition into the dust. Artists! Musicians! Street-actors! He couldn’t be seen to let their show of self-confidence go unchallenged. If the other families saw him surrender…
Edmund glanced around the slim hallway. When he had last been in the City Hall, he had been a lieutenant. He had waited in this very hallway for Brigadier McNaymare to come charging up the stairs to be intercepted by some signature, or perhaps Major Schtillhart.
Now he waited once more, but not as a lieutenant. He was Patron Moulde, and the Mayor was in a meeting. He couldn’t be disturbed.
Edmund recognized the signs; the secretary was young and hadn’t bothered to speak to the Mayor when Edmund demanded to see him. Like as not, she had been instructed to tell everyone to wait, and hadn’t realized that these orders clearly did not apply to the Founding Families.
Time was, such subtleties never needed to be explained. They were known, much as the sun was known to rise in the east. Now, this younger generation…
“Sir, the Mayor will see you now.” The young secretary approached Edmund with a hesitant step.
Ah. Edmund stood up. Clearly a reprimand had been delivered, and the secretary now knew what deference was due. When he stepped into the Mayor’s office, the man would likely fall over himself with apology, explain the foolishness of his secretary, and make no small amount of contrite offers for amends.
Following the secretary, Edmund stepped through the door of the Mayor’s Office.
“Patron Moulde!” The Mayor stood from his desk, hands stretched out in welcoming supplication. “I must apologize for keeping you waiting. I had given instructions not to be disturbed, but I never for a moment dreamed that my secretary would think such instruction spread to you as well! Please accept my humble apologies. Can I get you anything? A drink perhaps? Of course a drink! Let me pour…”
Edmund wasn’t listening. Edmund was staring.
Mr. Shobbinton stared back.
“Oh! Of course, forgive me again! Allow me to introduce —”
“We are quite intimately familiar with each other,” Mr. Shobbinton stood, adjusting his vest as he reached out his hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Patron.”
“And you, Mr. Shobbinton.”
The short solicitor reclaimed his seat, interrupting the mayor before he could resume his obsequiousness. “I was just speaking with the Mayor about an interesting client I recently took on. A fascinating legal situation, in fact, concerning the legitimacy of contracts when there is no basis for the good faith of a signee. There is also an intriguing body of case-work that implies a —”
“You’re representing Kolb,” Edmund interrupted.
Mr. Shobbinton plucked his monocle from his eye and began to wipe it with a soft cloth. “I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of any client or clients I represent.”
Edmund stared for a moment longer before he sank into his own chair.
The meeting passed with few surprises, and fewer outbursts. Edmund sat and listened while Mr. Shobbinton wove such an intricate and detailed story of legal history, that the Mayor sat enraptured.
Edmund listened. He had come prepared with documents and contracts filed away in his own memory, his own story of legal precedent and moral necessity. He had come with fire and brimstone, only to be met with Mr. Shobbinton’s glacial stare.
He needed time. He needed haste. Mr. Shobbinton kept him from both. His story may have been smoke and mirrors, but it crafted an image Edmund could not escape. Money had not been paid, and a man’s work was his possession. The building had been the foreman’s to begin with, it was his to give to whom he pleased, and he gave it to the people. After all, they had paid as much as Edmund had, in the end. Was it not Edmund’s idea? But what was the value of an idea without the hands to give it form? Were they harming the Moulde’s good name? Some would say that was the point of art. And even accounting for all of this, it would take time to remove the squatters, clean off the artwork, and re-establish the building as a place of business. More than time, it would take lawyers and money that Edmund didn’t have.
His eye wandered from Mr. Shobbinton’s monocle to a discarded newspaper on a side table in the office. The picture of his factory was plain to see by anyone who cared to look.
The Founding Families would look. It was all they ever did. Even if he had the time, and the money, the memories of the upper-class were long. His factory, his beautiful factory, had been forever associated with the avant-garde. Merchants might purchase his aluminium, even handsomely, but the Moulde Family name…
…Everything he had ever fought for…
The debts were raising. An announcement ball, a wedding, soon the debt-collectors of the world would stop realizing the rules weren’t meant for the Founding Families. Soon they would come calling, knocking on the doors of Moulde Hall. They would glance up at the horrific Gran Gargoyle that threatened all who entered the mansion…and walk by unhindered.
“Patron?”
Edmund looked up. “Yes?”
“I asked if you have anything to add to…Mr. Shobbinton’s statements?”
Edmund turned to his former solicitor, searching for some sign of apology, regret, or even malice. He found only cold and dispassionate professionalism.
“No.”
The Mayor blinked. “Nothing?”
Edmund stood up from his chair, and left the room. What more was there to say?
Standing outside the Mayor’s office, Edmund stared off into the future, his mind numb. His options were limited now. No, that wasn’t true. He had only one option. One last option that would resolve everything.
Would Matron have approved?
He would never stop asking himself that question, he knew. Even after everything she had done for him, and everything he had done for her, she was still the one person in his life who didn’t care to give him what he wanted, but always gave him what he needed.
She had left the rest to him.
“Ahem.”
Edmund turned to look into the shiny monocle of Mr. Shobbinton. “Yes?”
“If I might indulge in a small moment of…frankly unprofessional behavior?”
Edmund nodded.
“I found great satisfaction in opposing you and your schemes in this matter.”
Edmund’s head sagged again.
“If I may share a few parting words?” The solicitor sniffed, polishing his monocle once again before replacing it and drawing a deep breath. “I did admire Matron. Very much.”
“And she admired you,” Edmund lied. But only a little. And perhaps not at all.
Mr. Shobbinton nodded, and turned to leave.
Edmund spoke once more. “I never thanked you for helping Matron adopt me. Handling the legal affairs in making me her heir.”
Mr. Shobbinton looked back, drawing himself up straighter, a small smile struggling on his lips. “It was one of the most difficult legal battles of my career.”
“Thank you. I don’t know if I could ever thank you enough.”
“You do have a very odd way of showing it.”
Edmund stared at his glass.
Why did the ice crack when he poured in the gin?
Out of all the questions that had run through his mind in the past five hours, it was hardly the oddest.
Ice is solid…in contact with liquid? No, it’s the temperature, he thought as he drained his drink. The ice is cold and the gin is warm. The ice warms from the outside in, so as its edges expand, the density changes, the pressure increases…It was all perfectly logical. Edmund resolved to perform experiments later to see if he was right. Or perhaps he could simply look it up in one of his books in the library.
God, how he wanted to be in his library right now. His warm womb of comfortable literature, his oasis away from the unfamiliar and unwelcoming world. He wanted to vanish into the solid words, purple ink on yellow paper…
He was getting old and tired. He was already eighteen, and he found himself relying more on more on reading books and scientific papers rather than performing the experiments himself. He was getting lazier…
Edmund stood up and walked to the drinks cabinet. How many glasses of gin had he drank?
It wasn’t important.
God, how he wanted to sit and listen to Aoide. He wanted to melt away into her soothing voice as she recited poetry to him, dancing away the world with her automaton arms.
Poetry. It was back, now. Ever since he had looked into Matron’s sarcophagus and seen that she was well and truly gone. He had hoped its return would have been a moment of joy, or relief. Instead, his poetry was a constant gnawing ache in his stomach. The poetry had flooded back to him like a deluge; discordant and complex. He couldn’t sort through it all…but it was easier with gin.
He closed his eyes and thought of Aoide. He wanted to see her. He wanted to be in his library. He wanted to run away from it all…but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had just one more thing to do.
There was a knock on the door.
“Mr. Wislydale is here, sir.”
“Show him in.”
The man swept into the room, his glass already half empty.
“By Jove, old chap, I didn’t half expect for you to drag me in to insult me some more. What sort of invitation did you call that? Written by someone’s pet dog, I shouldn’t wonder, what?”
Edmund didn’t answer.
“Your announcement ball is in two days. I hope you haven’t invited me with any surprises, have you?”
Edmund drained his glass in a single gulp and tossed the ice to the floor.
While Wislydale watched, Edmund wandered to the other end of the sitting room to a shelf that looked like any other shelf. He ran his finger along the row of thick books until he reached one that looked like any other book. He pulled, and the spines of it and its seven neighbors dropped down. Inside the hidden storage were two dusty bottles. Edmund selected one, and closed the books again with a loud clack.
“I found this in the tombs when I was nine,” Edmund said, staring at the label. “It’s over a century old.”
“By Jove.”
“Sitting next to a rotted coffin on its side. It must have been left there as a gift. Or a tithe.” Edmund walked back to the drinks cabinet, carefully putting each foot in front of the other. “I never liked whiskey. It tastes like burnt charcoal covered in creamed corn.”
Wislydale didn’t respond as Edmund pulled a cork-popper from the drawer. It was his own design; a squeeze, a bit of a twist on the lever, and a few solid pumps was all it needed for the cork to pop free.
A thick smell filled the room. Wislydale slowly stood up.
Selecting a second glass and placing it next to his own, Edmund poured two small drinks before replacing the cork. He grabbed both glasses and held one out to Wislydale, who took it with the reverence of a man receiving communion.
Edmund held out his own glass.
After a moment, Wislydale touched his glass to Edmund’s.
It tasted like smoked corn and caramel. It was smooth and didn’t burn the throat at all. It was like drinking honeyed cocoa.
Wislydale’s eyes closed.
Edmund left him there and walked to his own chair, sitting down with a soft thump.
With a snap, Wislydale’s eyes opened again, barely hidden fury concealed in his gaze. “So!” he snapped, his knuckles tightening around the glass. “You think you can confound me with…with alcohol? Bribe me and ply me with —”
“No.”
Wislydale faltered as Edmund leaned forward, his head hanging low. After a moment, Wislydale sat down as well.
They sat there, in silence, for what felt like hours. Edmund knew it could only have been minutes, but as the silence grew between them, he felt his grasp on the moment slipping away.
Finally, Wislydale coughed once, taking another delicate sip like a gourmet at a fine meal. “Why am I here, old boy?” he asked when he could open his eyes again.
Edmund stared into the milky-brown depths of his glass.
“I need your help.”
Wislydale snorted. “Do you old boy? Well, I must say I’m not a little confused by that admission. Didn’t you say not a week ago that there was nothing I could do to stop you?”
“I was right,” Edmund looked up, his eyes flashing. “It was all perfect. I was going to become the aluminium king of Brackenburg. With my process, I would have created millions of pounds worth of aluminium, and used it to build an empire. With Googoltha as my wife, the Rotledges couldn’t have challenged me. With a fortune in hand, the Church’s condemnation would have been meaningless. Everything could have fit. I could have…”
Edmund took another drink.
“I say, old boy,” Wislydale’s voice became concerned, “don’t gulp like that. I can’t bare to see good whiskey gulped, what?”
“Mr. Shobbinton would have stopped me,” Edmund continued. “He would have ‘urged caution.’ He would have given me paperwork and legal contracts and tied me up in bureaucracy for years. Kolb was a liability too. How could my parties rebuild the prestige of the Moulde Family with him shouting slurs at the landed gentry?”
“A difficult thing, certainly,” Wislydale nodded, and then leaned forward. “I say…you don’t mean your whole plan was based on funding…soiree’s, do you?”
Edmund took another drink. “They would have been spectacular. A million pounds spent on making the greatest soiree’s the Empire had ever seen. No one would have dared to miss them. Matron used letters…I would have used dances. Food from across the world, music specially commissioned, with the fortune from my bauxite, my seasonal balls could have surpassed even the Teapot Coteries greatest soirees. Monarchs would…I say, Monarchs would have craved invitation.”
He leveled his gaze at Wislydale. “And I would have heard every whisper, every conversation. Diplomats would sign treaties in my drawing-rooms instead of their specially built offices. Royal Weddings would hold their receptions in my gardens. The Moulde Family would become a cultural institution.”
Edmund’s head sagged again. He would have fit in, then.
“Yes, well…I suppose it’s not a unreasonable scheme, what?”
“I lost the factory.”
Wislydale cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes, I heard something of the sort. Infested with artists, eh? Hard luck, old boy.”
Luck. Edmund grit his teeth before downing the last of his drink to a cringe from Wislydale.
“I need your help.”
“If you do,” Wislydale said, waving his glass in the air, " — and I’m not saying I believe this little pantomime you’re putting on for me, old boy — what on earth do you think I can do for you?"
“It’s a new world, Wislydale,” Edmund could barely whisper. “We both know it. We all need money, now. The peerage, I mean. I thought I could get it cleverly, but now…the debts. I set too much in motion. I still need to pay for the factory. I have to pay for the announcement ball, the wedding, more debts and mortgages…I sold so many of my assets to invest in the factory and the logistics for…I paid for an entire army of laborers who are ready to cart half a million tonnes of bauxite to South Dunkin and back again to the Farrows district. I have supply-lines built and ready to go. I even have a good amount of bauxite already mined and sitting in the basement, ready to be smelted…and no factory to smelt it.” He lifted his head. “The Moulde Family is ruined.”
For a moment, Wislydale simply stared. Then, he slowly brought his glass to his lips, closing his eyes in rapturous enjoyment.
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was steady. “What do you have left?”
“Not much,” Edmund felt his eyes start to sting. “Our two hospitals, the Dog and Dancer on Bunting street. Two barren farms up north…but not the land. I sold the land, we only own the buildings. We have a first-refusal agreement…barely more than a handshake. And where would I sell the food, anyway?”
Wislydale took another sip.
“I need money,” Edmund looked up, “and you are the only way I can get it.”
“How?”
“I need a job.”
It is perhaps to his credit that Wislydale did not gasp, nor choke, nor sputter in the slightest. He gave no sign to Edmund that he was astonished or disappointed. In fact, he did nothing except sit and wait for Edmund to collect himself.
Edmund took a deep shuddering breath. “I have a process…a method that vastly improves on the Waller technique. The bauxite is still legally yours, and I know you have a way to sell the aluminium once you’ve got it…”
Wislydale frowned. “And I suspect you imagine I trust you enough to take you at your word?”
Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it again. What could he say?
“Very well then,” Wislydale smirked, his eyes cold. “I can call your bluff, what?” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the room doors opened and a team of lawyers, twenty strong, filed into the room, jostling about with their bowler hats, briefcases, and monocles. By the time they had set themselves in position around Edmund Wislydale’s smile was gone.
“Let’s talk.”