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*****

Much of the next morning, which was a drizzly late fall day, was spent indoors inspecting the kit of Platoon Thorn, Fourth Company, First Battalion, 37thRegiment of Foot.

The first thing I did, however, was peer into Lieutenant Kedgeay's room. His bed had been slept in, and there was a cup of tea on his desk. It was still warm. Of the officer himself, no sign.

To my relief, each of the squaddies seemed to have his standard kit, barring a few minor exceptions which were mostly broken spears, something of a disposable item in any event. Somewhat more problematic was the fact that the platoon was lacking a number of its field implements, like shovels and pick-axes.

A more unpleasant surprise came in the kitchen, when I examined the pantry and found it, in the words of the cook, "as bare as the arse of a fennec's daughter." There followed a somewhat testy discussion regarding the receipt of rations, in which the cook insisted that he had not seen anything approaching normal rations in better than 18 months, and that most of what the squaddies were eating was what they had grown in market-gardens in back of the barracks. Where the parade ground was supposed to be.

"Well, from where do you draw your ______ rations, then? Fuma's eclipse-making tail?"

I was informed that if, indeed, the cook had drawn his rations from the jet-black tailfur of Fuma Herself, it would probably be easier than having the rations delivered by the skiving twits in Flourford, who after all were the HQ of the Fourth Company.

"Well, why don't you send Plimsoll with his cart?"

I was informed that this was not the platoon's job. On the spot, I made it the platoon's job, and told the cook and Plimsoll to get their tailfur on the buckboard, and bring back rations for a month, field fortification implements, some replacement spears, the previous quarter's pay (which had not been paid, allegedly) and a pawful of other things that I put on a list. Last but not least was an order to get information as to who the hell had receipted for the rations.

The list was compiled under the dubious gaze of the squaddies, and was folded up and addressed to the Major of the Company. Plimsoll and the cook waddled off, at least in the hope of getting something hot to drink in Flourford for their pains.

"Right. Since it's still raining outside, let's have all of the furniture off to the side, draw some water, get out the mops, and I want this floor as clean as..."

I was stuck for a phrase, until Millwright piped up. "As clean as the arse of a fennec's daughter."

"How clean is that?" came the query. There was some movement to explore this topic of great interest, which I cut short.

While there was a fair amount of good-natured cursing and growling going on (Hedgeton complaining that he was going to get housemaid's knees, which prompted Millwright to suggest that another portion of a housemaid was more appropriate), I attempted to make sense of the platoon's records.

I gave it up about two hours later as a hopeless job. There were at least four different rosters for the platoon, one of which appeared to be older than I was. The pay records were incomplete, and signed for in an illegible scrawl. The edition of the King's Regulations was the one issued in the reign of King Adler's father Sartorious, and there was no sign of the Order Book. Or at least, the Order Book was filled with art studies.

I supplied a fresh copy of the King's Regulations, and by good fortune, a set of blank roster forms, pay forms, and an unused Order Book were found in a trunk holding up one of the side tables. There was some interruption in the cleaning duties while soldiers were called over to my makeshift writing table, made to show their identity discs, and sign the roster.

Bruning (a/k/a Brunschnout, a boar that lived up to his unfortunate nickname in a literal sense) signed the register, and asked for a servant to take his bags up to the bridal suite. Millwright was incredulous.

"Fuma's teeth, you mean you've actually landed one?"

"Eeeeh, they's always 'ope, Mills."

I left the space for Lieutenant Kedgeay blank, and for Sergeant Crater, ditto. This left Captain O'Bloom, and with a sense of dread, I trod the Golden Stairs to his room.

He lay in bed, contemplating deep thoughts like the poets of old. He was also, it appeared to me, skiving, ditto. My order scroll had not been touched, though clearly the little bag of hard candies which he attempted to shove under his pillow once I noticed them bore every sign of having been used.

I indicated that I was filling out the platoon roster, and that I needed to know his service number.

"What-what-what? Damned insolence, sir! How dare you suggest I'm a mere number! I'll have you know I come from a long line of soldiers."

"How ever did they spare the effort to create such a long line?"

I got a splutter for that, which let me make the further observation that if he did not provide me with his service number and sign the roster and the pay book, by King's Regulations, he would not be paid, and therefore it would be quite likely that he would not be able to afford the nice sparkling wine that he was obviously drinking, judging from the bottle that was peeking out from underneath his bed.

"That's medicinal. It helps settle my stomach."

"It looks very well settled from here, sir. If it were any further settled, it would have defensive walls."

With much moaning and groaning, and a production of attempting to find his spectacles (which were on top of his head), he signed his name twice in a weak scrawl. He also asked when lunch was going to be served. I told him I would speak to the waiter about it.

When I returned to the first floor, one of the most important events of a squaddie's day was occurring: namely, one of the five times a day there was a brew-up. Both Schweink and Bagoum had told me that a soldier of Faerie could lose his sword, lose his spear, and even lose his footgear, but no squaddie would ever lose his Mug (Tin, Enameled). As the floor did look clean, and a few squaddies that had guzzled their tea were already working on the windows, I let the matter pass, and worked to figure out a way to get a small scroll-case into my room. I did manage to fit it under my desk.

After that exertion, and while the platoon was tackling the job of cleaning the pantry, kitchen, and W.C. (in an order that I hoped was appropriate), I went outside for a bit of air, and also a recce.

Seen in daylight, Mossford wasn't unpleasant, even if you factor in a muddy, unpaved street after the morning's showers. The wooden buildings, even if a bit weathered, were clean and in good repair. On the left side of the street, as I looked down it, there was a public house, a one-storey affair with the Royal Standard flying above it, another one-story building painted red, and the Temple. On the right side, there was a large building with a smoking chimney, from which the sounds of metal bashing could be heard, and another large building with an assortment of boxes and barrels and sacks in front.

The building with the Royal Standard turned out to be the office of the Mayor of Mossford, who was also the Postmaster, Recorder, Coroner, Collector of Taxes, Notary, Justice of the Peace and Schoolmaster. Mr. Burrows, a rather slender rabbit wrapped up in layers of shirts and old corduroy trousers, woke up from his nap near the wood-burning stove, indicated that he was delighted to see me, and that he hoped I would enjoy my posting in Mossford. I made suitable replies, and asked if there were any official deliveries for the platoon.

A few minutes later, I was the recipient of a very large grain-bag full of scroll tubes, and the news that there were two more in the back. Mr. Burrows was pleased that I had come to collect them, as they had been taking up quite a bit of space.

A polite request did at least allow for delivery, which he indicated would be made later today when the blacksmith was free, as he usually made all local deliveries.

Crossing the street rather daintily, I entered the establishment of "A. Burrows, General Merchant." The rabbit behind the counter cheerfully waved.

"Ah! Are you Lieutenant Kedgeay's batman?"

"No, I've just arrived in town. I am Corporal Winterbough."

"Well, if you see Lieutenant Kedgeay, will you tell him his boots are ready?"

"You've seen him?"

"Errr, well, no, not exactly. He left his boots here to be mended last week. Wonderful officer, you know. Always pays his bills."

I had a sneaking suspicion how, but a quick check of the stores' supplies, at least the ones out front, indicated that at any rate A. Burrows was not dumb enough to have Army property out on display.

Out of curiousity, I asked to see his account book. There were a number of sales recorded, on a regular basis, to Lieutenant Kedgeay. Business was done by scroll, usually with money left.

"Trusting, isn't he?"

I had my doubts on that score.

The onerous task of sorting through what appeared to be months of official mail was briefly interrupted at the start by the return of Plimsoll and the cook, Pte. Todd. The squaddies, having just finished the general clean-up, watched slack-jawed as the buckboard came wobbling down the street, the ant in harness clicking and gronking in protest.

A return-scroll from the Major indicated that he was pleased to provide any assistance he could, in line with the orders from GHQ he had received. In answer to my query, the previous quarter's pay and the rations for the last number of months had all been signed for by Lieutenant Kedgeay. Pending further investigations, he taken the liberty of advancing the platoon one month's pay and two month's rations, and hoped that I would have the favour, &c. &c.

The squaddies of the platoon started looking at me very curiously after that, though for the most part, they requested an hour's leave to visit the pub and the general store. Permission granted, with the proviso that I'd skin the lot of them if they weren't back in time. Ritualistic, but expected.

Except for about forty-five minutes for Evesong, I spent the rest of the afternoon and the night sorting through the mail. My dinner was delivered to me in my mess-kit (hot turnip slices in butter). Capt. O'Bloom had his dinner delivered to him on a tray, which I was informed was standard procedure. I let that pass, as I was trying to focus my mind on what Regimental was up to.

Discarding the obsolete and duplicative mail, the gist of the correspondence seemed to be a rather acrimonious back-and-forth as to the quality of the reports that Lieutenant Kedgeay was submitting to Regimental. This paled in comparison to the following correspondence that I pieced together from a batch of scrolls, which helpfully had copies of the triggering letters:

To: Q.M., 37th Regiment. Please issue to me one (1) Metal Spoon (Eating). Issue will be permanent. /s/ Lt. S. Kedgeay

_ _

_ To: Finance Department, 37thRegiment. Please advise as to the feasibility of issuing one (1) Metal Spoon (Eating) on a permanent basis to Lt. S. Kedgeay, Mossford Garrison. /s/ Sgt-Maj P. Lit, Q.M., 37th Regiment_

_ _

_ To: Logistical Department, 37thRegiment, cc. Q.M. 37th Regiment. No objections from a fiscal standpoint. Please advise as to when the Metal Spoon (Eating) can be shipped to Mossford. /s/ Lt. Riggs, Paymaster, 37thRegiment._

_ _

_ To: Finance Department, 37thRegiment, cc Q.M. 37th Regiment. Please advise where Metal Spoon (Eating) is to be delivered. Original request did not specify. /s/ Sgt. J. White, Logistical Department._

_ _

_ To: Lt. S. Kedgeay, Mossford Garrison. Please advise Logistical Department as to where you would like Metal Spoon (Eating) to be issued, and cc other parties. /s/ Sgt-Maj P. Lit, Q.M. 37thRegiment._

_ _

_ To: Q.M., 37th Regiment, cc. Finance Department, 37thRegiment, Logistical Department, 37th Regiment. Issue to be in Mossford Garrison, ref. correspondence by Finance Department, above. /s/ Lt. S. Kedgeay._

_ _

_ To: Lt. S. Kedgeay, Mossford Garrison. Please clarify previous correspondence. Issue of what? /s/ Sgt-Maj P. Lit, Q.M. 37thRegiment._

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_ To: Q.M. 37th Regiment, cc. Finance Department, Logistics Department. Issue of Metal Spoon (Eating) to be made to me here at Mossford Garrison. /s/ Lt. S. Kedgeay_

_ _

_ To: Lt. S. Kedgeay, Mossford Garrison, cc. Finance Department, Logistics Department. Regret Metal Spoon (Eating) not in stores. Advise of Wooden Spoon (Eating) can be issued in stead. Finance Department, please advise if previous advice stands. /s/ Sgt-Maj P. Lit, Q.M. 37thRegiment._

_ _

_ To: Q.M. 37th Regiment, cc. Logistics Department. No objections as to revised issue. Please advise when issue made. /s/ Lt. Riggs, Paymaster, 37thRegiment._

_ _

_ To: Lt. S. Kedgeay, Mossford Garrison. Delivery of one (1) Wooden Spoon (Eating) will be made tomorrow, in four-hour window in afternoon. /s/ Sgt. J. White, Logistics Department._

_ _

_ To: Logistics Department. What Wooden Spoon (Eating)? I ordered a Metal Spoon (Eating). Can you suggest substitute? /s/ Lt. S. Kedgeay._

From there, the correspondence seemed to go around in circles, with no one in the various Regimental departments in Flourford being able to figure out what, precisely, was supposed to be delivered to Lt. Kedgeay in Mossford. What's more, it seemed to draw in other correspondents from depots even further back, and for all I knew, Persoc Tor might have been on the verge of intervention. The last letter, from approximately four days prior, made the Lieutenant an offer of five lute picks, a barrel of pickles and a shovel. I was pretty interested in the shovel, and to tell the truth I still wonder what a frontier regimental depot was doing with lute picks.

The rest of the platoon had long since gone to sleep when I finished sorting the mail, setting aside the pawful that had to be attended to in fairly short order. I wrote out a scroll for the Lieutenant advising him of the status of his request to the Regimental Q.M., and also that his boots were ready at the general store.

I had a close look at his desk when I dropped off the scroll. There was a tooth-brush in a small metal cup there. It was still wet.