The Royal Armoury of Efficient Parts

Later, it became famous for making armour efficiently.

The distinction took several years to become visible.

Long before the Royal Armoury acquired its seven departments, three directorates, two coordinating councils and the Office for the Investigation of Unsatisfactory Battlefield Outcomes, it had been a workshop.

It was not a particularly impressive workshop.

There were twelve armourers, four apprentices, two large furnaces and a wooden table which everyone agreed should eventually be replaced. Knights came through the front gate carrying armour. Sometimes they were still wearing it. They complained.

“The shoulder catches when I raise my sword.”

“The left fastening cannot be opened with gloves.”

“This plate stops a spear remarkably well, but unfortunately also stops me from getting onto my horse.”

The armourers listened. Sometimes they disagreed. Then they fetched a hammer. A plate was shortened, a hinge was moved, a fastening was replaced. The knight tried again. Occasionally this made things worse. In those cases the armourer fetched the hammer again. Nobody had given this process a name.

They called it making armour.

The Royal Armoury became successful.

This was the beginning of its difficulties.

The King’s soldiers increasingly preferred its armour. Fewer pieces broke. Repairs became easier. Knights returned from battle with observations rather than missing limbs, which was widely considered progress. Soon neighbouring regiments requested armour of their own. Then the infantry wanted some. Then the archers. Finally the cavalry demanded lighter armour for scouts and heavier armour for tournaments, although nobody was entirely sure why tournaments had become a military procurement concern.

Eventually the King visited.

He inspected the workshop. He watched an armourer remove a shoulder plate from a knight, cut away a finger’s width of steel, reattach it and ask the knight to swing his sword.

The knight did.

“Better,” he said.

The King was impressed.

“How many suits can you make?”

The Master Armourer considered this.

“About forty before winter.”

“I need ten thousand.”

The Master Armourer looked at the furnaces. Then at the wooden table.

“We shall need a larger workshop.”

The King smiled.

This was considered visionary leadership.

The larger workshop worked surprisingly well.

There were more furnaces and more armourers. Experienced armourers taught younger ones. Patterns were copied where they proved useful. Parts that broke frequently were improved. Parts that rarely broke were left alone. Soldiers continued to visit. Armourers occasionally travelled with the regiments. The wooden table was replaced by three wooden tables. For several years, things went remarkably well.

Then someone noticed the cost. Not that the Armoury was particularly expensive. The problem was that nobody knew precisely how expensive it was.

The Royal Treasurer considered this unacceptable.

“How many coins does a breastplate cost?” he asked.

“It depends,” said the Master Armourer.

Treasurers dislike this expression.

“On what?”

“The soldier. The armour. What we already have. What we have learned. Whether—”

“I mean on average.”

The Master Armourer thought about this.

“Why?”

This was not the answer the Treasurer had expected.

The first improvement was therefore introduced.

Purchasing iron was separated from making armour. This made considerable sense. Armourers were expensive craftspeople. There was no reason for them to spend their time negotiating with iron merchants.

A Royal Office of Metallic Procurement was established. It bought iron in larger quantities and negotiated excellent prices. The cost of iron fell by twelve percent. Everyone was pleased.

Soon afterwards, another improvement followed.

Measurements were taking valuable time away from forging.

A Hall of Martial Measures was established. Its specialists became remarkably good at measuring soldiers.

Shoulders.

Arms.

Legs.

Horse heights.

Expected weapon reach.

The average distance between a cavalryman’s left knee and the saddle during a standard charge.

The measurements were written down and delivered to the armourers. The armourers no longer needed to spend as much time with soldiers. Productivity increased.

The Royal Treasurer was delighted.

The Armoury continued to grow. With growth came specialization. There were now people responsible for breastplates. Others for helmets. Others for hinges and fastenings.

There was a separate guild for hardening steel, because hardening steel required expensive furnaces whose utilization had previously been disturbingly difficult to predict.

Inspection became independent of manufacturing. This prevented armourers from marking their own work as satisfactory. A Quartermaster’s Office coordinated deliveries. The Army established a Battlefield Requirements Council so that soldiers would no longer interrupt armourers individually with contradictory requests.

Each change solved a real problem.

Each department received a budget.

Each budget received a target.

And each target was carefully designed to improve efficiency.

The Office of Metallic Procurement reduced the cost of iron. The Hall of Martial Measures increased the number of soldiers measured per week. The forging halls increased pieces produced per furnace. The inspectors reduced the number of defective pieces leaving the Armoury. The Quartermasters reduced the cost of delivery.

It became possible to show, with impressive tables, that almost every part of the Royal Armoury was becoming more efficient.

The King was pleased.

The Treasurer was extremely pleased.

The armourers were very busy.

The soldiers had stopped visiting.

Nobody could remember exactly when.

The first serious problem concerned the shoulder plate.

Infantry officers reported that soldiers could not raise their arms far enough when fighting with the new long spears. The report was delivered to the Battlefield Requirements Council. The Council investigated. It concluded that the problem was real.

This conclusion was forwarded to the Hall of Martial Measures, which discovered that the original specification had indeed been based primarily on cavalry movements.

A more comprehensive analysis was commissioned.

Three months later, the Hall produced the revised Royal Specification for Upper Limb Mobility in Mounted and Unmounted Combat.

The armourers modified the shoulder plate. The inspectors rejected it. The revised plate no longer satisfied the existing inspection specification. A coordination meeting was arranged. The inspectors explained that they could not approve a plate against requirements they had not received. This was generally accepted as reasonable. The inspection specification was updated. Unfortunately, the Office of Metallic Procurement had already contracted the steel required for the original design until the end of the year. The revised plate required slightly different stock. Procurement explained that changing the contract would increase the cost per plate. The Treasurer requested an impact assessment. By the following spring, the first revised shoulder plates reached the infantry.

They worked considerably better.

Unfortunately, the infantry had changed spears.

The King was concerned.

“How did we fail to foresee this?”

The Hall of Martial Measures agreed that this was the essential question.

A review was commissioned.

It found that the original analysis had insufficiently considered the possibility of changes in infantry weaponry. The Hall therefore expanded its analysis. Weapon development forecasts were added. So were terrain classifications. Seasonal variations. Mounted and unmounted combat scenarios. Expected enemy formations.

Known crossbow developments. Possible crossbow developments. And, after a particularly uncomfortable meeting, unknown categories of crossbow development.

The next specification was considerably more thorough. It took longer to produce. This was unfortunate, but unavoidable. After all, ten thousand suits of armour were involved.

One could hardly experiment with something that important.

Unfortunately, the additional thoroughness did not produce the expected acceleration.

Armour changes continued to take longer. Dependencies increased. Budgets became more difficult to coordinate. Meetings multiplied.

The King demanded improvement.

The Treasurer recommended expertise.

And so, one cold Monday morning, a delegation arrived from the Guild of Deferred Improvements.

Their robes were immaculate.

Their references were excellent.

Their luggage required two carts.

At their head walked Master Harnock.

He spent six weeks observing the Royal Armoury. He interviewed the Hall of Martial Measures. He interviewed the Office of Metallic Procurement. He interviewed the forging halls, the inspectors, the Quartermasters, the Battlefield Requirements Council and several people whose exact organizational affiliation could no longer be established. He did not interview any soldiers. This was not deliberate. They simply did not appear on the organizational chart. At the end of the investigation, Master Harnock presented his findings to the Royal Council.

“The Royal Armoury,” he announced, “suffers from insufficient coordination.”

Nobody disagreed.

He revealed a large parchment. It contained boxes. Many boxes. Between the boxes were arrows. Some arrows crossed other arrows. Several returned to boxes they had previously left. One particularly ambitious arrow disappeared behind the edge of the parchment and returned near the bottom.

The Witch was not yet present.

This was fortunate.

Master Harnock’s findings were difficult to dispute.

Requirements reached the forging halls in inconsistent forms. Procurement learned of material changes too late. Inspectors were insufficiently involved in specification reviews. Dependencies between armour components were not centrally documented. Departmental plans operated on different schedules. Changes were sometimes started before all affected parties had agreed upon them.

All of these things were true.

The Guild therefore proposed the Royal Armoury Improvement Programme.

A standardized Armour Change Request was introduced.

Every proposed change now required an origin, expected benefit, affected armour components, known dependencies, estimated costs and the approval of the responsible offices. A quarterly planning ceremony coordinated upcoming work. A Royal Armour Portfolio collected all proposed improvements. A Dependency Council ensured that no department was surprised by another department’s activities.

And because some battlefield needs could not reasonably wait for the normal process, a special category was created:

Expedited Battlefield Necessity.

These requests followed a shortened approval path. Under favourable conditions they could be completed within three months.

The King was impressed.

The Treasurer approved the programme.

The Royal Armoury Transformation Office was established to oversee its implementation.

The improvements worked.

Requirements became more consistent.

Budget forecasts improved.

Procurement surprises declined.

Inspectors were involved earlier.

Departments became better at predicting when they would require work from other departments.

The average variance between planned and actual delivery dates fell considerably.

Master Harnock presented the figures.

The King congratulated him.

The Treasurer extended the Guild’s contract.

Armour still took nearly a year to change. But it now did so considerably more predictably.

After another six months, the Guild discovered a further problem.

Armour changes were too large. This finding caused considerable excitement. Large changes created large dependencies. Large dependencies were difficult to plan. Therefore, Master Harnock explained, changes should be divided into smaller work packages. The Royal Armoury embraced the idea enthusiastically. A shoulder improvement that had previously been represented by one Armour Change Request was divided into seventeen smaller ones.

Each was easier to estimate.

Each was easier to assign.

Each was easier to report.

Each still travelled through the Hall of Martial Measures, the Armour Portfolio, the Dependency Council, Procurement, Forging, Inspection and Quartermastering. The reports improved considerably.

The armour did not.

The Witch arrived at the Royal Armoury on a Tuesday.

Nobody knew why.

This was normal. She first walked through the Hall of Martial Measures. Hundreds of clerks sat behind desks. Walls were covered with diagrams of human movement. One particularly impressive drawing showed seventy-three recognized states of mountedness.

The Witch stopped.

“What is that?”

“Cavalry classification,” said a proud analyst.

The Witch studied the diagram.

There were states for mounted, dismounted, mounting, involuntarily dismounted, temporarily remounted and mounted upon a horse other than the originally assigned horse.

“What happens if he falls off?”

The analyst pointed to a box.

“We have three classifications for that.”

“Of course.”

She continued.

Near the Royal Armoury Transformation Office she encountered Master Harnock and several members of the Guild of Deferred Improvements.

They stood before an enormous dependency diagram.

The Witch stopped.

“What is this?”

“The path by which a battlefield observation becomes an armour improvement,” said Master Harnock.

The Witch followed the arrows with one finger. She counted silently for a while.

“Why are there forty-seven boxes?”

Master Harnock nodded gravely.

“That is precisely why we are here.”

“To remove them?”

He looked puzzled.

“To manage them.”

The Witch considered this.

“And the small boxes?”

Master Harnock brightened.

“Our latest improvement. Changes are now divided into smaller units. This reduces complexity.”

“So they travel a shorter distance?”

“No. Naturally they must still pass through the required controls.”

“But they are smaller.”

“Precisely.”

The Witch looked again at the forty-seven boxes.

“You have made the travellers smaller.”

“Yes.”

“Have you made the journey shorter?”

Master Harnock frowned.

The Witch continued walking.

In the forging halls she found hundreds of armourers producing breastplates.

They worked with extraordinary precision.

“How do you know whether they are good?” she asked.

The Master of Breastplate Production looked surprised.

“They are all within specification.”

“I see.”

He showed her the production figures. The forging hall had reduced the average time required for a breastplate by eighteen percent. Scrap had fallen by nine percent. Furnace utilization had reached ninety-four percent.

The Witch appeared impressed.

“How long does it take to change one?”

The Master frowned.

“Change what?”

“A breastplate.”

“They are all the same.”

“Yes,” said the Witch. “That is why I asked.”

Eventually she found an old armourer repairing a helmet behind one of the smaller workshops. He had been with the Armoury before it became Royal. The Witch sat beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“Moving this strap.”

“Why?”

“Soldier says it rubs against his ear.”

“Has the Hall of Martial Measures approved that?”

“No.”

“The inspectors?”

“No.”

“Procurement?”

The old armourer looked at her.

“It is a strap.”

The Witch nodded.

This seemed reasonable.

The soldier put on the helmet. He shook his head.

“Still catches.”

The armourer moved the strap again.

The soldier tried once more.

“Better.”

The armourer smiled.

The Witch watched them for a while.

“How long did that take?”

“Ten minutes.”

“And if the Royal Armoury did it?”

The old man laughed. Then he noticed that she wasn’t joking.

“Oh.”

He thought.

“Next year, perhaps.”

That afternoon the Witch attended the Royal Council for Armoury Efficiency.

The Treasurer presented the annual results.

They were excellent. Iron procurement costs had fallen. Furnace utilization had increased. Measurement throughput had increased. Inspection costs had fallen. Transport costs per suit had reached a historic low. Planning accuracy had improved substantially since the arrival of the Guild of Deferred Improvements.

Even the Office for the Investigation of Unsatisfactory Battlefield Outcomes had reduced expenditure by eleven percent.

The King looked satisfied.

“Then our coins are being used more effectively.”

The Witch raised a finger.

The room became quiet.

This was partly because she was the Witch and partly because nobody had invited her.

“How do you know?”

The Treasurer blinked.

“I have just shown you.”

“You showed me that you spend fewer coins.”

“Precisely.”

“Did the soldiers become better protected?”

“That is not a Treasury measure.”

“Did armour improve faster?”

“That belongs to the Armoury.”

The Master of the Armoury cleared his throat.

“Improvement depends upon approved battlefield requirements.”

The Battlefield Requirements Council explained that it depended upon sufficiently complete observations. The Hall of Martial Measures explained that these depended upon analysis capacity. The forging halls depended upon approved specifications. Inspection depended upon revised criteria. Procurement depended upon forecast material requirements. The Transformation Office depended upon coordinated plans. The Dependency Council depended upon timely declarations from all affected departments. And all of them depended upon budgets.

The Witch listened carefully.

“So who,” she finally asked, “makes the armour?”

“The Royal Armoury,” said the King.

“Yes,” said the Witch.

“Who?”

Nobody answered immediately.

The King looked annoyed.

“We cannot run an institution of this size like twelve armourers around a wooden table.”

“No,” said the Witch.

The Treasurer smiled.

At last they were making progress.

“You understand, then.”

“Certainly.”

The Witch stood and walked to the great map of the Armoury hanging behind the Council. It showed halls, offices, guilds, councils, programmes and reporting lines. She looked at it for some time.

“When there were twelve armourers,” she said, “how long did it take them to discover that a shoulder plate was wrong?”

The old Master Armourer, who had been invited mostly for ceremonial reasons, answered.

“A soldier usually told us.”

“And then?”

“We changed it.”

“How long?”

He shrugged.

“An afternoon.”

The Witch pointed at the map.

“And now?”

Nobody answered.

The King sighed.

“There are ten thousand soldiers now. Not forty.”

“Exactly.”

The Witch turned around.

“So you have considerably more to learn.”

“Yes.”

“And considerably more ways to be wrong.”

“Yes.”

“And being wrong is considerably more expensive.”

The Treasurer nodded vigorously.

“Precisely!”

The Witch smiled.

“Then why did you make learning slower?”

Master Harnock leaned forward.

“With respect, Witch, experimentation is appropriate when the undertaking is small. At this scale, uncontrolled change would be irresponsible.”

The Witch looked at him.

“Who suggested uncontrolled change?”

Harnock hesitated.

“We require coordination.”

“Of course.”

“Planning.”

“Certainly.”

“Responsibilities.”

“Naturally.”

Master Harnock relaxed slightly.

The Witch continued.

“But you seem to have confused rendering account for something with being responsible for one of its dependencies.”

The room became quiet again. She pointed towards the old Master Armourer.

“He could tell me why a plate looked the way it did.”

Then towards the organizational map.

“Each of you can tell me why your part of making it was correct.”

She looked at the King.

“I am not certain those are the same thing.”

The Council adjourned late that evening. No immediate decision was reached. Several members recommended a study. The Guild of Deferred Improvements offered to facilitate it. The Witch declined to participate.

On her way out, she passed the old armourer again. He was replacing a fastening on a breastplate.

“You knew that would fail?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why was it so easy to replace?”

The armourer shrugged.

“Because something always does.”

Outside, carts were leaving the Royal Armoury. Each carried identical crates. Each crate contained armour manufactured more cheaply than the year before. The Royal Armoury had become exceptionally efficient. Every department could prove it. Every budget could account for its coins. Every dependency had an owner. Every improvement had a process. And somewhere between all of them lay the armour. The Witch watched the carts disappear towards the army. Then she looked back at the enormous Armoury.

When it had been small, its people had taken tiny steps because they knew how little they understood. As it had grown, they had become convinced that tiny steps were no longer sufficient. So they took larger ones. More carefully. More thoroughly. And considerably further from the soldiers.

When the larger steps proved difficult, they divided them into smaller pieces. And sent every piece along the same enormous road.

“Curious,” said the Witch.

Aitch-Two-Oh, who had been standing silently beside her for some time, emitted a small click.

“Observation?”

“Yes.”

The Witch started walking.

“The more they had to learn, the longer they waited to learn it.”

The cat, who had spent most of the afternoon asleep on a crate of efficiently procured iron, opened one eye.

“Mrrrow.”

The Witch stopped.

“Yes,” she said. “That too.”

Aitch-Two-Oh clicked.

“Translation?”

The Witch looked back at the enormous Armoury.

“If you want to know whether the armour fits,” she said, “put it on someone.”

The cat yawned.

“Mrrrow.”

“Quite,” said the Witch.

Aitch-Zwei-Oh clicked.

“Translation?”

“The soldier was available the whole time.”

The cat closed its eye again.

This appeared to settle the matter.