Tunnels 04, Closer

-- that was what won the day. Luck -- or fate, as you call it -- had nothing to do with it. Wellington was a military genius -- he completely outmaneuvered Napoleon."
    Drake stared back at him. "The was the Seventh Coalition's victory down to Wellington's skills as a general... or as a politician?"
    "What's the difference?" the Limiter answered.
    Drake frowned as something in the battle scene didn't make sense to him. "I can see Napoleon over three," he said, pointing at the figure flanked by his generals. "But where's Wellington?" Drake moves toward the British forces to examine them more closely. "Can't see him anywhere."
    "That's because I'm taking another look at him," the Limiter said, going over to a rolltop desk by the wall where he picked up a single figure. "I'm not completely happy with him yet."
    "May I?" Drake asked, holding out his hand.
    "Certainly." The Limiter passed the figure to him.
    "The Iron Duke," Drake said as he studied the figure, which appeared to be writing on a map. He lifted the figure up to the light, taking in its blue long coat and the red sash tied around its waist. "Yu say that you're not happy with him... but this detail is quite breathtaking," he complimented the Limiter, then glanced at the desk where the figure had been. On it were many small pots of paint, brushes in a mug, a large magnifying glass and a number of unfinished soldiers. "Don't tell me you paint the figures yourself? You've done all the figures in the scene?"
    "It passes the time," the Limiter replied.
    "No, it's much more than that... it's a labor of love," Drake declared. "Do you mind if I...?" he asked, leaning over the table where the British army was positioned.
    "Be my guest," the Limiter answered.
    "That's better. He's where he should be, now," Drake said, as he carefully placed Wellington in front of a small campaign tent with the other British generals.
    Drake then gazed around the rest of the room. There were shelves of books and a row of glass-fronted display cabinets in which there were English army helmets from Waterloo, the Crimean War and other nineteenth-century battles, with polished brass badges and plume-like hackles. As Drake looked away from these, he caught the Styx scrutinizing him, and met his impenetrable eyes.
    "Something on your mind?" the Styx divined.
    There were a thousand questions Drake wanted to ask this man, but he resolved not to bombard him with them all at once. "Yes, there is something. You know my name, but what do I call you? I'm aware the Styx don't have names... well, not ones that any Topsoiler can pronounce," Drake said a little awkwardly.
    The Limiter considered this for a moment. "The beneficiary on the lease for this warehouse is Edward James Green," he answered. "I have other identities such as--"
    "No, that'll do," Drake cut him short. "Edward... James... Green." He rubbed his forehead as he thought. "Then I shall call you... Eddie... Eddie the Styx." The notion of addressing one of these savage soldiers -- albeit a retired one -- by such an everyday Topsoiler moniker was so absurd that Drake couldn't suppress a chuckle.
    "As you please," the newly-christened Eddie replied, non-plussed that Drake seemed to be so amused.
    They moved to the far end of the room, to a bank of CCTV monitors, which displayed scenes of the street outside and several other views that Drake didn't recognize immediately -- they looked as though they were of the insides of brick tunnels. Eddie noticed Drake's interest. "The sewers under this building. It's a precautionary measure -- one can't be too careful," he said.
    "No, one can't, not with the Styx," Drake agreed.
    At the end of a small hallway was a heavy steel door. They passed through it and were descending a wrought-iron staircase when Drake drew to a halt. "What is this place?" he asked. The contrast with the lavish apartment he'd just left couldn't have been more marked.
    From his elevated viewpoint, he was looking out over what appeared to be a warehouse, an area approaching a hundred meters from end to end, and half that in width. The tall windows were filthy and barely any light made it through, but what little there was revealed the floor space was dotted about with chunks of machinery. As Drake descended the remaining distance and could see the machines closer at hand, their condition suggested that they'd been unused for decades.
    "This was a Victorian bottling factory, a family-owned business," Eddie said. "When their