20. SPECIAL FIELD REPORT NO 9

"He captured the duchess's castle?" Ney laughed. "With cavalry?"

Captain Barbier nodded. "I've got the letter right here if you want to read it. All the Elbans were disarmed, and Castle Vatspol is in our hands. Duchess Triana's family is under lock and key."

Ney shook his head. "Good Christ, why do I even bother with artillery?"

Barbier shrugged.

"Anything else I need to see?" Ney asked.

"There's a letter from Italica. Chaucer's handwriting."

Ney spat. He was only a day or two away from Duke Cantero's trainees, and he wanted nothing more than to thrust himself into battle again. A report from Chaucer seemed like a good way to get a headache.

Barbier knew all this, and he was a very good aide. "Would you prefer I read it for you, sir?"

Ney grinned. "Excellent idea, Captain. The army will resume its march in an hour. With any luck we'll have the Elbans in our palm by sunset. Feel free to give me the gist of our esteemed head of requisitions' letter after we scatter the Elbans."

Barbier saluted. "Yes, sir."

Ney nodded and left to get a report from his cavalry scouts. Barbier watched him go and sighed. Then he began to read.

SPECIAL FIELD REPORT NO. 9

TO GENERAL NEY, COMMANDER OF FRENCH FORCES IN FALMART

Headquarters, Italica, 10 Ventôse, Year XXI

Citizen General Ney, may the Supreme Being curse your name. You nearly got yourself killed, you blundering red-faced idiot! Now you're leading some crazy campaign against the blood sucking Elban nobility because that damned traitorous, aristocratic, upper-class, peasant-starving, backstabbing, cousin-fucking, artisan-killing, ignorant, hubristic king wouldn't give you a wizard?

This is all quite frankly beneath you, Citizen General.

Now keep in mind, I'm writing to you maybe two weeks in the past due to the time it takes a courier to travel, so I most certainly do not have the most up to date information. No doubt you'll have the entire situation sorted by the time this letter reaches you, so I will refrain from offering you the good advice I'd usually have in this situation. Suffice to say, however, were I in your position, I'd have killed the bastard king then guillotined all his cowardly nobles to send a message.

The guillotine gives us freedom, and we have the opportunity to bring that freedom to this land. Never forget that, Citizen. I certainly don't.

You're not actually reading this are you?

Well to whoever is reading this, Barbier or Courbet or Rousseau or whichever officer you've got doing all of your paperwork, I think it is time I informed you of the current events in Italica. There's not a lot in Italica proper, I suppose. I only have a company of grenadiers to enforce my will, and that means I'm essentially always treading on eggshells. There are plans I have ready, make no mistake, but for the moment they are just plans.

So no, I haven't seized the local aristocrats. No, I haven't freed all the slaves. No, I haven't established a grand republic worthy of Robespierre's vision. No, I haven't started another riot. Well… some of that's true.

What have I done, you ask? Why do I bother you with my ranting and raving when you could be curled up next to a fire with a cup of wine in one hand and an Elban lady whose services you've purchased for the night in the other?

I've established a spy network in Sadera, of course. Someone had to.

Listen, we've been on the receiving end of a good deal of espionage and conspiracy. Italica was one thing, but now you've stumbled into a nest of spies in Janku, and poor Captain Duclos has been working overtime trying to maintain damage control. As an aside, you really need to reward Duclos a bit more. You made him a captain after Italica, and you made him a knight after Castle Tubet, and you've done absolutely nothing for his work in this venture. Men like him should be forming the core of our nation's Republican Guard not wasting away their days as lowly fusiliers. You know for all I despise Citizen Bonaparte and the damage he's done to our republic, the concept of a Consular and (I spit) Imperial Guard is not quite the worst he has ever had. Shocked? But what about absolute equality, you say? Listen, I'm not just some fanatic at the end of the day. My views might be considered moderate by some of my compatriots, and if you think I shock you, then I hope you never step foot in a Parisian coffee house. The Republic would be best served with an elite corps of revolutionaries who understand their duty to liberty, equality, and fraternity. They might serve as a vanguard. The ones who other soldiers could look up to and strive to become.

But I digress. I was speaking of spies, not soldiers. The thing about spies is that there's really no such thing as a 'professional' spy. Oh I know what all the novels and romances and plays say on the subject, but in truth there's no such thing as an academy for spies that pumps out elite handsome looking agents to spy on foreign governments. Yes, spies receive some training, but no one is a professional spy.

Why, you demand to know? It's because the best kind of spy is a spy who actually has a legitimate reason to be there. Sure, you could craft some elaborate backstory and falsify a great deal of connections to make them seem like a shoemaker in Vienna, but really it's far simpler to pay an actual shoemaker in Vienna. At the end of the day, your clever, expertly trained, dashing, professional spy will never be able to recreate a lifetime of experiences and connections. So really, it is just so much simpler to find someone who's already there and get them to spy for you.

So how do I get a spy that can give me intelligence on the Saderan government? I ask Jacek and some of his miners.

"No," was Jacek's immediate response. "Too dangerous, and I like my current job."

"Well it doesn't have to be you, per se."

He still didn't want to. "Spies get executed. Besides, what is a miner going to learn in Sadera?"

I believe I shrugged at that. "I can make you rich if you do it."

He tilted his head. "How rich?"

I told him, and he laughed.

"No you can't. You're out of money, scribe; I know the Galanti vault is nearing empty."

Of course he knew that. I'd been paying him exorbitant amounts of money for sulfur and lead, and we still aren't taxing anyone.

What he didn't know was that I'd also devised a way to get him his money regardless of the empty Galanti vault. It works a bit like this.

A filthy rich nobleman or merchant is sipping tea in his giant mansion, enjoying the lovely Italican weather. He's just about to consider ordering a new marble statue of himself when one of his slaves rudely interrupts his daydreaming. The richman snaps at the slave and demands to know why he has been interrupted. The slave, who understands he is the bearer of bad news, stutters and tries to word his message in a way that seems favorable. He fails, of course, so he ends up spluttering nonsense. The richman snaps at him again, and the slave finally just says it.

There's two bluecoats here to see you, the slave says. They are asking about money.

Money?

The slave averts his eyes. It really is just best if they tell you, he whimpers.

So the richman lets the bluecoats in, and the slave is sent away, and the richman wonders if he needs to give money to the gangs again so they can start another riot against that stupid, evil quartermaster who's destroying this noble city and can't seem to stop talking about killing the upper class.

The bluecoats have a piece of paper. Congratulations, they say, you've been randomly selected to assist the city-wide security effort. We'd like this much money from your estate by the end of next week.

Theft! Robbery! Blatant skullduggery! I won't pay you scum a single denari! I know you've only got a hundred or so soldiers, and if you try this underhanded tactic my friends and I will have you ousted in no time!

Oh no, sir, the bluecoats say. We're not going to steal anything. We're just here to issue you your assignats in exchange for the money.

Never! You thieving- Wait, what's an assignat?

Now, Citizen General Ney most certainly is aware of what an assignat is, and so are most Frenchmen who were alive during the height of the Revolution. But I'll just explain in case one of the youngsters like Barbier is reading this.

An assignat is a piece of paper that serves as currency. A fiat currency, if you'd prefer the very modern term, because it's not inherently worth anything like our gold francs. In France every assignat was originally backed by the value of land we'd seized from the church and nobility, but that didn't last very long, and soon they were essentially just backed by our Republic's word. The Republic printed millions of these pieces of paper in order to shovel our way out of debt, and they quickly lost value. I believe the total count was something around five billion assignats in circulation by Year II? Oh yes, people stopped trusting them, and you ended up having to bring wheelbarrows of the things in order to pay for a loaf of bread, and the price controls we set in place were foiled by treasonous farmers, and people starved. But regardless, they did what they were supposed to, and they funded the Republic on the back of a small lie. People didn't like them, but we wouldn't have been able to fight the Prussians, Austrians, British, Spanish, Italians, and Swiss at the same time without them. Desperate measures in the name of the Republic, I'm well aware.

Now, I don't exactly have any recently seized land to back the value of my assignats, and I certainly am not trusted enough by the richmen of this city for them to value my fiat currency at a flat exchange rate. Instead my assignats work more like bonds. Investments really.

So the bluecoat soldiers tell the richman, An assignat is really a benefit to you! For every denari you use to purchase an assignat, you'll receive two denaris when they become redeemable.

Oh really, the richman says. And I've been selected for this? Me personally?

The bluecoats nod their heads agreeably. The richman grows a big smile.

So the richman empties out his vault and sends it all to my headquarters. Then the bluecoats come back the next day with a fine piece of paper that reads 'RÉPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE ASSIGNAT' and the exact value of their volunteered wealth converted to francs. The richman is happy that he just made such a lucrative investment at the expense of the stupid quartermaster peasant who was foolishly put in charge of Italica, and I get my money. I really do hope you've figured a way out of this place before they become redeemable. I'm running out of schemes to collect money.

"You stole this money?" Jacek asked when I eventually showed him that I could indeed pay him.

"Do you care?" I responded.

He shook his head, and I sent him to Italica with five of his miners, a cartload of raw iron, and money to buy informants.

Now, I wasn't there for any of this, of course, so I'm going off of Jacek's word. He's a good man. Like I said in one of my first reports, men like him are the grease that keep the machine of state running. And unlike your Captain Duclos, I do reward Jacek a great deal. He owns a house in the good part of Italica now. Do you know how absurd that is? A poor miner residing amongst merchants and nobility. That house is worth more than everything he'd ever owned up to this point. The wonders of the Revolution.

When he arrived in Italica, Jacek immediately went to sell his iron to the smiths. They were more than happy to buy it all because they had a big order to fulfill. Big order? Jacek talked to them more, and he figured out that the Saderan senate had issued a decree raising a new army, and all those new soldiers needed weapons and armor. Forty thousand men. Give or take some.

Jacek, being a good man, then asked what the new army was for. The smiths laughed and called him a country bumpkin and told him that Emperor Molt was sick and Prince Zorzal was acting as regent in his stead. Jacek then asked what that had to do with a new army, and the smiths laughed at him again before telling him that Zorzal wanted a war to reclaim Italica.

Ah… Prince Zorzal. We should have sent him to the guillotine while we had the chance.

That was all the information that the smiths had, so Jacek smiled, feigned ignorance, and left them. Then he bought his first informer.

He was a slave boy who worked in the senate. I don't know how Jacek met him, and it's probably good I don't. I don't know what he looks like, what his job is, or even what his real name is. Things are safer that way, and I'm happy enough to take Jacek's word for it all. You've heard that ignorance is bliss, I presume?

Something I do know is that slaves have no love for their masters, and the boy only costs Jacek (and by extension me) a sinku every week or so.

You'd be surprised what masters will say in front of their slaves. I certainly was. They never consider that their slaves could be plotting against them, and I doubt they even consider the slaves to really be human. Some of them aren't actually human, I suppose, but you get what I mean. It's like they imagine they're talking to a wall. They like to voice their schemes and their plots and their fears. It's like the slaves at their side are invisible to them because they aren't free. Men will say a great deal of things in front of those they don't think are listening.

Zorzal was trying to rally the senate for war. He had opposition, and that was why it was taking so long. The pro-war faction was getting antsy because they had heard our army was in Elbe, and they thought if they were fast enough they could take back Italica before the army returned. The anti-war faction had a better memory than them, and they'd learned the lesson of Aquila Ridge: don't fight France.

Zorzal was trying to break the stalemate by playing politics, and his sister, Princess Pina, was trying to do the opposite by rallying the anti-war senators. Siblings, eh?

This was all from the mouth of a slave boy and a dozen other slaves who Jacek got on his payroll. One of the informers even said Emperor Molt had been poisoned by Zorzal so that he could establish the regency. Another said Zorzal was planning a coup to arrest all the anti-war senators and put his sister in chains.

My last report from Jacek's informants was eight days ago, and it stated that most of the senators believe war is inevitable. The anti-war faction is just trying to stall at this point. Pina is desperately seeking support, and Zorzal is gathering loyal soldiers for his coup.

Perhaps I should have started my report with this, but I've never been good at getting straight to the point. War is coming, and the army needs to return to Italica immediately. Your little escapade in Elbe needs to end. I cannot hold this city for more than a week with the men I have. Even that's doubtful.

Are you reading this now, Ney? Probably not, but I ask whichever officer you've got reading it to impress my urgency on you.

Get the army to Italica. Immediately.

There, I've said what needs to be said. Now I can bore whoever's reading this with some details on how I'm going to defend Italica.

Defend Italica? But you said you could only hold out for a week, you protest. Very true, but a week is a long time, and I intend to give you that week of defense before the walls are all stormed, and Italica falls to Zorzal's horde. Who knows. Maybe you'll be able to rescue us in a week.

So first thing's first. A company of grenadiers is just barely enough to maintain order, and it's nowhere near enough to man the walls against an invading army. If Zorzal attacked Italica right this instant, he'd have the city by escalade in a matter of hours, and I couldn't do a thing about it except maybe burn all my documents and blow my brains out. Trust me, I'm not going to let myself be captured. Prisoners talk, and I doubt I'd be very popular with Zorzal. Best case, he'd execute me quickly. Worst case, he'd torture me for weeks until I spilled everything I knew about you, your army, our muskets, and whatever else he thinks I have an inkling about. So really why take the chance?

We needed more men, but I'd already conscripted all the scum and farmboys, and I couldn't free any more slaves or I'd have a riot. Fortunately I didn't need new soldiers. I could use a militia.

The rules of war state that a city that is seized by force is to be sacked. Who makes these rules you might ask? I don't know. But it doesn't matter whose city it is nor who lives in that city. It gets sacked, and everyone inside suffers no matter their loyalties. Soldiers are vicious fellows, and they love sacking cities. If soldiers take a city by force, something seems to overtake them. Suddenly they don't care that the civilians inside it are innocent and are just trying to live their lives. Suddenly they don't care they're stealing the livelihood of poor workers. Suddenly they don't care about rape and murder. They smell blood, and they stop caring. Men are killed wherever they are seen, and women are raped in the streets. Churches are looted and destroyed. Fires start, burning swathes through the city and blotting out the sky with the smoke of ten thousand homes. The wealth of an entire society is piled up and carted off to be sold in some distant markets as looters roam the streets. Officers can scarcely do a thing to restore discipline, if they even try. Commanders might try to stop it with some vain hope of human decency, but they rarely succeed. Many openly endorse it. And when the dust finally settles and the soldiers leave with their loot, that city will be a pale skeleton of what it once was, rarely ever recovering the glory it once boasted.

Let me tell you a basic truth that applies anywhere. Men will defend their homes regardless of politics. When the bullet hits your skull, it doesn't matter why. It doesn't matter if you're an avid monarchist or a die-hard republican. You're dead, and that's it. Corpses don't care about politics. This is why men are often forced to fight for leaders they despise.

I think you understand where this is going.

The Italican Militia was officially formed eight days ago by city-wide decree. Every public area had a piece of paper informing the public that, in light of recent information, it was deemed necessary for all citizens to begin training for the city's defense. All male citizens aged twelve to sixty were henceforth enlisted in the Italican Militia, a part-time service which was explicitly only to be used for the defense of Italica and its surrounding countryside. Male citizens could forgo service if they provided five replacements (usually slaves) to take their place.

You'll note I didn't directly conscript the slaves. I would've liked to, of course, but I'm certain that would have caused a riot. It's also why I made the militia a part-time service instead of a professional army. And also why they're only to be used for the immediate defense of Italica. People grumbled obviously, but I only mandated a few hours of training every other day, and that was light enough that men didn't start a riot.

Are you still following? Because this is where it gets complicated.

In order to ensure my militia was fully manned and that men weren't simply blowing it off, I decided to conduct a census. Problem: I don't have the manpower for a city-wide census. Solution: I have a lot of money that isn't really mine, and I can hire the manpower.

So because of that I began hiring people who could read, write, and generally had a head on their shoulders to be bureaucrats. I started with the blue haired girl who's been acting as my translator, and I used her to find people who fit my description. In three days I had a corps of bureaucrats who I used to record the names of every male citizen in the city and ensure that they were going to show up to serve in the militia or at least send replacements. Now with my army of bureaucrats I also began recording some other things that needed recording. How much food we had in stockpile. How much food we could theoretically have if we centralized all the grain. Lists of how many weapons we had spare and how many we could create on short notice. Lists of the same but for armor. A record of all the wells in the city and how many people each could sustain. How many bolts of cloth were in the market, and how much cloth would we need to create new gambesons. Estimates of our wood supply and what that wood supply would look like if we started dismantling houses. The same for stone, iron, copper, tin, clay, rope, lead, paper, sulfur, saltpeter, graphite, charcoal, and a dozen other useful things. Ledgers detailing the city's tools, and how much of that could be converted into weapons, and how many I'd need to start patching the holes we blew into Italica's walls oh so long ago. There's a couple other things I'm sure I've forgotten to mention, but you get the gist.

Oh, the next few days were busy, busy, busy. For everyone else, not me. I had bureaucrats running around making lists. I had grenadiers training militiamen how to use spears (similar enough to a bayoneted musket). I had miners bringing in large shipments of ore, foresters chopping down an ancient grove of trees to make sure we had enough wood, and farmers carting in bags of grain that they were going to make a tremendous profit on. Everyone (except me) was skittering around Italica doing something I'd told them to do yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. The blue haired girl was counting grain sacks, safely stored in the formerly empty Galanti bank vaults, guarded by grenadiers who were relieved to not be training militia. Hundreds of women were sewing bolts of cloth into gambesons because I'd paid money for it. Thousands of children were piling stones into baskets woven by their mothers to be placed as gabion walls as a stop gap in the breached Italican walls so that they could collect the three denari reward I was offering for filled baskets. Every smith was hammering at the forge to create spears, arrowheads, helmets, and a hundred minor metal objects that I figured might be useful in a siege. Tullia Bato worked to figure out how she could pour the strange bronze cannons I ordered that were smaller than the usual ones and for some reason could swivel on a wooden tripod mount designed by the city's carpenters. Men and women were taught how to mix sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, and graphite to make blackpowder because I could no longer spare Frenchmen for the task, and I figured it was only a matter of time until the secret got out.

The city is changing as a side effect of my orders. Unemployment is nonexistent because I am practically dumping money into the streets with my orders. People have food in their bellies and money in their pockets, and they don't hate me for it. The rich think I am stupid, but they accept my assignats, give me slaves to substitute their militia service, and generally don't care. The city's middle class is growing. My constant demand for manufactured items means that artisans and craftsmen are in high demand, and assistants are literally being picked up from the streets. It isn't just economics either. The French language is becoming more widespread because people are realizing its usefulness. My bureaucrats learned the basics quickly, how to count and label items mostly, and because I'm using French terms for most things, anyone who interacts with me or my administrators (which is a significant number of people) also has to learn those terms. That started a trend, and it's actually now quite fashionable to use French words in everyday conversation. They pronounce it terribly, of course, and most can't say more than hello, but the gesture is appreciated.

Forgive me, I'm getting distracted. The next few days; busy, for everyone but me. I was out of orders to give, and even if I had more orders, I didn't have spare men to carry them out. Fortunately I found something to distract me in the form of one of Tullia's prototypes being freshly completed.

So down I went to her forge, only to find it deserted. I found one of Tullia's assistants, a teenage boy who was utterly smitten with her, cooking stew over an open fire; for when she got back, he told me. She's up on the wall, didn't you know? So I dragged myself up to the wall, where Tullia had just finished mounting her first bronze-cast swivel gun on a wooden tripod.

I stared at the thing, fresh bronze gleaming in the afternoon light, and imagined shooting down dragons. That's what they're for of course. I'd read the report of how the Elbans nearly took out your artillery battery with a dragon, and I'd felt a shiver down my spine. Captain Delon managed to take it down with his clever trick on the hill, but that's unreliable at best, and I'm not in the business of taking chances. So I commissioned this fine piece and thirty others like it so that if Zorzal gets his hand on dragons we won't be, pardon my language, utterly fucked.

The gun can fire small caliber round shot as well as grapeshot. It's mounted on the wood tripod with a universal joint that the carpenters of Italica spent a solid few days designing so it has free range of fire while still being able to be relocated to wherever we need it. The legs have lead weights on them to dampen recoil, and the joint is reinforced with iron plates to keep it intact. With it, we can have gunners target the dragons when they fly past and hopefully drop them from the sky. I hope we never have to use it, but it's always best to be prepared.

Tullia was fiddling with the touchhole, one of her cast-iron balls in hand and a charge of blackpowder at her feet. It seemed she had figured out we weren't ordering cast-iron balls for art projects after all. Someone was going to discover the connection eventually. Might as well have been her. I stood over her and got in her light. "Go away," she said, not looking up.

"Well done," I said; my Saderan's not bad these days.

She jumped, dropped the iron ball onto her foot, made a sort of violent hiss, turned and winced. "Does it look alright?"

I shrugged. "I've only seen one of these back in my world. It looked about the same."

She stroked a finger across the bronze. "I don't think I'll have much problem with the other thirty. Once I figured out how to pour the mold in one go, and I got my assistants hammering away at-"

"Very good," I said. "Have you tested it?"

She glared at me because of course she wasn't supposed to know how to test it, and I hadn't told her to test it, but I had stumbled on her about to test it, and she probably had a broken toe now because of my interruption. "Was just about to."

"After you then."

She packed the powder down the barrel then followed it with the ball and pricked it through the touchhole. She knew how to load the thing better than I did.

"Know how to fire it?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes and lit a piece of paper using a lantern she'd stowed nearby. I aimed the thing, she lowered the burning paper, there was a deafening bang, and the swivel gun recoiled into me, tripod and all.

I found myself knocked over, ears ringing and cannon resting on my chest. The gun had worked of course, and the cannonball was buried somewhere in a field outside of Italica, but from the ground it didn't seem that way. My chest still aches from that.

"Put more weight onto the tripod," I coughed, trying to stand.

Tullia didn't even turn her head. "Noted," she said. She was looking over the wall, calculating the distance the cannonball had arced. I think it was at that moment I decided she would be the key to defending Italica.

Well, either her or the cultist.

The ringing gradually wore off, and that meant I could hear properly again. Someone clapped behind me.

I whirled because, well, anyone who's clapping for that kind of performance is clearly mocking us, and also because I hadn't realized anyone was watching us.

I whirled, and I immediately thought I was being accosted. There was a girl there who couldn't have been more than fifteen years old, and she was dressed in a black and red dress that would have caused a scandal in France. She was leaning on an oversized halberd which she moved as if it was made of feathers. Tullia wore a horrified expression and moved to hide behind me.

I thought the whole situation to be incredibly odd.

"Who are you?" I asked.

She eyed me up like I was made of gold and purred, "You kill people."

Now I've never killed a man in my life. Well… maybe that's not entirely true, but I'm certainly no killer, and I took no pleasure in it. I deliver the means that allow other people to kill people, and that's it. I ensure that a general has the powder, shot, and steel in adequate numbers and in the right place at the right time so that they can kill people. I do not, however, relish in cutting men down with a bloodied cavalry saber like a certain colonel does.

I believe I narrowed my eyes. "You may have the wrong man. Who are you, again?"

She giggled and walked closer. "Rory Mercury." She touched my chest, and I flinched. "The Apostle of Emroy."

Who did the bitch think she was? She was evidently some kind of cultist. Tullia, behind me, tried to whisper something, but she was so damned afraid that I couldn't make sense of it.

I touched the hilt of my smallsword. "Nothing to see here, miss. Go on your way." Honestly I don't know what I was thinking. I barely knew how to use my sword, and she had a halberd bigger than me.

She grinned, hefted her weapon, and I drew my sword.

Again, I don't know what I was thinking, but she walked forward. I stuck the smallsword out straight ahead. Then I was very surprised to see her impaled on my blade.

I was even more surprised when she kept walking.

I nearly fainted. She walked forward, impaling herself further onto the smallsword until the flimsy thing's blade snapped, and she was chest to chest with me. I watched the gaping wound in her chest disappear as the flesh seemed to knit itself together. I think I was preparing to die.

She leaned to my ear and spoke perfect French. "Your army is very powerful… It kills well. I think I am going to help you."

I nodded. What else can you do in that situation, tell me? Don't pretend you'd do any different.

And then, of course, I fainted.

When I woke up, she was gone, and Tullia was kneeling over me trying to make sure I was alive. I was, fortunately for you, and I only had some bruising from the cannon to show for it.

That was yesterday. I haven't seen her since, but I've written this report to update you on the situation. I've thought it over, and I've come to the realization none of it matters. This world is full of freaks, and she's just one among many. Forget the cultist; that's not the pressing issue. Zorzal is preparing for war, and I need reinforcements if I have any hope of surviving. I am preparing as best I can. Get back to Italica.

END OF REPORT

Signed,

Jean-Pierre Chaucer, Head of Requisitions

A Chaucer chapter because I've had ideas, and I needed to get them on paper.