It was a time of darkness. Though it wasn't really dark, not all the time, only it felt darker, even during the day. Perhaps it might be better to say it was a time of dimness when the light seemed less bright as if saving energy for future generations.

It was a time when greed stalked the land like a greedy thing stalking around rather than wandering aimlessly like a mysterious smell no one could locate the source of and which usually ended up being blamed on the drains. People felt they had less and so wanted more. Compelled by a need to possess they would stop at nothing to enrich themselves. Thus business and trade were founded among the simple folk of Poldorama.

"How far back are we going here?" Meresinth said, interrupting the narrative. "Has the wheel been invented yet, or canals dug?"

The two girls had settled down for an evening's read in a quiet corner of the library, choosing to use the code to access a printed copy of the information they sought. A plump volume in the business section lay upon a table and Vetta and Meresinth hunched over its fine print with varying mixtures of curiosity and indifference. There was a sense of ludicrousness in the matter being consulted, a text grandly purporting to be a true and accurate account of Vetta's Home Winkel a hundred years ago.

"Hush, this is exciting," Vetta replied a little vexed. Here were the origins of her people mapped out in the Poldor Chronicle, the foundations of that which made the land what it was. She continued to read.

Along the great canals that threaded the land since the dawn of time a stand was made, not against poverty for no one was poor. The waterways brought everything needful from distant lands. It was a stand against equality. The first stand sold lemonade and the purveyor was enriched by selling the sharp beverage to those who had never tasted it before. Another stand offered cut and coloured paper upon which notes might be made more appealing if read against an orange or lilac surface, and this too created a desire in canal travellers. Before long so many stands were made in the same place it became a renowned emporium of luxury items and pleasurable goods. Thus there was felt a need to mark it on a map, and a market it became.

Stands became shops and shops multiplied into districts. All the while the proprietors grew rich and contented and disposable income lodged itself in fewer hands. The disparity of wealth thus made manifest created a longing to succeed in those who were once content, enlivening some among the simple folk to take back what had once been theirs, or somebody else's though precisely who was not important at the time. So rivalries began. Not one but five lemonade sellers sprung up. Coloured paper came in an infinity of shades, each more desirable than the last, or so it might seem.

The Master Cheesemonger of Martagraff was at this time unrivalled in the many cheeses he distributed across the land, and the wax label showing a winged daisy could be seen in every corner of every dairy store. Then it was that the family of Monykebbok stood forth and declared they would make cheeses to rival the greatest in the land.

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They had enriched themselves on tinned goods, an invention that transformed food storage. Thus they were mighty in the land, with outlets in every settlement from the windy Frobern District in the north to the very quiet centre, known as the Blessed Hub.

"That's my home district," Vetta interrupted herself happily, pleased to have it mentioned in such a distinguished chronicle.

"And finally we get to the cheese bit, after wading through a thick layer of packaging," Meresinth added her own take on the enthralling details of the story.

With such a powerful base upon which to start, the Monykebbok empire plunged to the very elbows in cheese vats and the finest dairy cows money could buy. Within ten years the balance of trade was at an equality and everyone seemed satisfied with the idea of two great cheese houses, bringing variety and competition to eateries across the land.

Greed though saw what it had done and was not satisfied. Pride thrust forward helpfully and in a sort of whiny voice pointed out to be equal in great things was no better than being equal in small things. One had to prevail, surmount and overtop a rival for the true glory of success to manifest itself. Pride whispered into the ear of old Borg Monykebbok, the founding father of the new cheese empire, and the man heeded the whispers for greed was in his bones.

"Martagraff must fall," he declared during a game of counters upon the lawn where he often relaxed of an afternoon with his elderly friends at home. They were mainly deaf so did not grasp his declaration of war, but his secretary, also his nurse, accountant and three devoted grandsons caught the drift of his speech and prepared battle plans to bring down the waxy winged daisy from every shop in the land.

"Undercutting," one grandson declared.

"Flooding the market to unsustainable levels, cutting losses temporarily and forcing the enemy to make cutbacks to compete," said another grandson in devious tones.

"Tinned cheese," declared the third, a visionary born before his time and as such was usually ignored. In this instance he was not just ignored but laughed at, so he blushed and withdrew his suggestion, though not without registering the idea later on that day so no one else might filch it. Visionaries were cunning like that.

Within time the Martagraff empire crumbled like dried cheese so that only one outlet remained as a reminder of former greatness. Old Borg Monykebbok sat himself upon a bench within view of the devoted shop, dressed all in black, a ruffled crow cawing the doom his greed had engendered. He sat there, resting gnarled old hands upon a gnarled old stick and watched every day almost, until the time he awaited came to pass.

The last customer left, the blinds were drawn and a sign was place in the window that the eatery would open no more. Thus ended the Great Cheese War.

"Well that was thrilling," Vetta said, a little bemused at the sudden ending.

"So this Monykebbok was essentially a villain, obsessed with bringing down a rival so he could command all the cheese in the land," Meresinth summed up the chronicle they had been reading.

"It is a sad tale," Vetta admitted.

"And a descendant of his has arrived in Frangea, and set up shop opposite the Squeaky Tomato," Meresinth pointed out.

"Oh," came a squeak from the other girl.

"Exactly. The Great Cheese War is about to begin all over again, right on our doorstep."