So ends the first story in the Edmund Moulde quadrilogy. With some time to spare before my treatise on the medium of RPGs is finished, I will spend the next few Saturdays uploading some short stories set in what I ended up calling The Cliffside Universe
After all, Brackenburg is only one of the major cities in the Britannian Empire, and a steadily decaying one, at that. There is room for stories across the globe as the world slowly changes from steam-punk to diesel-punk, and no one city is better suited to display the variety and complexity of that transition than Cliffside, hub of trade, adventure, and diverse stew of humanity.
Opening each Edmund book with an excerpt or quote from a fabricated biography of Edmund Moulde was the plan for a long time…but when I first decided to post the book on a (now defunct) blog, I needed something to separate each chapter. So, I decided to write more of Edmund’s Poems.
What resulted was a mix of parodies and absurdities. At first, I attributed each quote to a different scholar and book, but soon the rivalry between Sirs Kohlm and Krink took shape, and eventually they became the only scholars I cited.
A pin falling on a carpet from the height of an ant’s back could have broken the silence. The air itself froze, not daring to cross the room for fear of disrupting the stunned tableau.
Tricknee had no such restraint.
“WHAT?!”
His lanky body unfolded in a flurry of black limbs, rushing towards Edmund like a wrinkled thresher machine.
“Please forgive me, Mister Tricknee,” words tumbled from his mouth in an avalanche, desperate to slow his meteoric advance, “I know we agreed to reveal this later, but I simply cannot in good conscience keep such important news from our honored guests.
Edmund stood in front of Moulde Hall, dressed in the finest fitting suit he had been able to purchase in town, watching the carriage driver drive up the hill.
Ung had been waiting in his room to help him dress. Edmund was no expert, but Ung had assured him that the suit was well made and a perfect fit. The collar was broad and tall, and the vest was a thin leathery gray with Plinkerton’s watch tucked neatly into the pocket.
Edmund cast the lantern around the tomb, casting shadows over the rough stone. Plinkerton didn’t create this room; it was far too old. The long steps and secret door weren’t likely the original entrance either; people would notice if the crypt of the first Moulde was suddenly covered by a clock statue. There had to be another way out…the original way out.
Edmund was beginning to realize the problem with trying to be three things at once; a person, a Moulde, and an Edmund.
The Mansion struck ten in the evening, the deep boom rolling over Haggard Hill. The storm clouds continued their bubbling creep over the city, turning the warm velvety darkness of nighttime into the empty gray darkness of foreboding doom. Black rain fell fast and hard against the windows of Moulde Hall.
Edmund raised his crank lantern higher against the gloom. He had found it in a storage-room filled with gardening supplies; a clever tool that somehow turned the rotation of a crank on its side into a dim reddish light.
It is important to recognize — as Edmund did when he grew much older — that the discovery of Aoide changed everything for him, and not for the better.
Before Aoide, his days were a whirlwind of repetitive activity. In spite of Edmund’s enamouration with the library, he still had responsibilities, and as painful as it was for him there were times he needed to leave his beloved library to fulfill his obligations; namely, exploring the locked rooms of Moulde Hall, eating a lonely dinner at six of the clock precisely, spying on his family, taking Matron her tray of lunch, and his lessons.
When he was sufficiently armed with the scripture of the ages, Edmund removed the last nails from the tapestry and pulled down the rest of the crumbling wall..
From the front, the statue looked like a beautiful marble statue that wouldn’t move, no matter how long Edmund prodded at it. Around the back, however, was a large opening at the base of the woman’s torso. A few frayed threads stuck to two threaded bolts suggested the opening had once been covered by a piece of cloth, and perhaps it still would have been, had the rat not found it before Edmund.
It was almost dinnertime when they finally stopped. Edmund had lost every game.
Before they started, Edmund was skeptical; Draughts looked perfectly balanced to him. Both sides had the same number of pieces, the same rules for movement…any game had to end in a tie, or at least be very close.
By the end of the sixth game, Edmund had learned differently. He was beginning to see the whole board at once and to plan more than a single step ahead.
“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.
