Mazelton would never bury his parents. They weren’t Dusties, of course. Their family gods had totally different funerary customs. But he didn’t perform any of the rites. Didn’t offer incense, didn’t lay out fruits and grains, no ritual flagellation and preserving their death masks. His parents would have died of shame if they knew they would be buried without professional mourners in attendance. Leaving them unburied felt like a pulled tooth.

The Ælfflæd his clan venerated weren’t too particular about the forms of things that didn’t directly involve them. Mazelton more or less understood their perspective- as long as the traditions are kept, the bargains with the Ælfflæd will be kept, so better that the mortals observe their rituals than not. Still, not their monkeys, not their nut factory. Mostly they just came for the incense offerings they were given as a thank you for looking after the deceased over the course of their life, and guarding their dissolution into the earth. (Of course, the failures who got buried in the fields didn’t get an incense offering made, leaving their soul up for whatever wandering demon felt like a snack.)

He could imagine the Ælfflæd floating around, inhaling the incense, going “Yes. Guarding. That is what I am doing right here, guarding. Mmm. More of the good stuff. Guarding so, so hard.”

Mazelton watched the steam rise out of the hot dishes and slowly fall again as the chill set in. Did the Hag try to sell the plume of core dust as an incense offering? No, impossible. She would have piled up every dram of incense and fragrant oil in the Hall of Ritual, set the whole damn thing on fire and said “Damn the others, just make sure the Clan makes it out clean.”

Mazelton lost his interest in both food and talking when that thought forced its way in. He just stood under a tree and waited for things to wrap up. He would catch the Humble before he took the family to the partition. In Old Radler, people would have just left him alone. He was a long way from Old Radler.

A plate of herbed white beans and pickled onions on a flatbread was shoved into his hand.

“Hey buddy! You must be new around here. I’m Al Johnson.”

“Mazelton, and yes, my ship just came in.”

“And you turned out for old Lemu? Wow, buddy, you are going to really fit in here. I saw you offering tears earlier. Just wanted to say, I know

Greta appreciates it. Heck, old Lemu appreciates it too, I’m sure.”

“Just… remembering. And thinking that this was the nicest funeral I ever saw.”

“Hey now! It’s really nice of you to say that. What Coven are you with?”

“I’d prefer not to say. Some ugliness back home. Out here to build something new, you know?”

“Huh? Oh sure. Sure, we do get a fair few people with that situation. Well I’m sure you’ll settle in just fine anyhow. I’ll introduce you around.”

“Actually, I know this is a bad time, but could you introduce me to the Humble? I have a letter for him.”

“No problem. Humble Dougal! Got someone here to meet you. Mazelton- Humble Dougal.” Johnson beamed.

Mazelton cupped his hands, one over the other, making a sphere just above his solar plexus. He bowed the requisite forty five degrees, pressed his palms together, and stood back up.

“Venerable, I am a stranger from afar. May I shelter beneath your trees?”

“You were always here, and always kin. We all are one, and welcome beneath the trees of the Great Dusty World.” The Humble returned the gesture and hugged Mazelton. “You really are from afar. Don’t think I have done the formal welcome in twenty five years. Amazed I still remember it, actually. Eat up friend. This is a funeral! Can’t have you moping around.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

Humble Dougal looked at him, and it turned out that soul flensing eyes were not exclusive to Humble Iolan.

“You are hungry. Eat. I am the Man Dougal, Humble for the Coven of Sky’s Echo. Your name is Mazelton?”

“I am the Man Mazelton. I have no other name, and am… seeking purpose. Humble Iolan sends his regards and this letter.”

Mazelton delivered the letter from his breast and, flatbread forcibly reinserted into his hand, began to eat. It was good. Oily, peppery from the herbs, a bit of a citrus flavor from who knows where, and the pickled onions had a nice sharp bite to them. Even the bread was good. Not the best he ever had, but good.

“I’ll read it when I’m done with the partition, which will be soon, as it happens. Sun sets fast this time of year. In the meantime, eat. Meet some folk. I’ll find you after. Got a place for the night?”

“Not yet.”

“Fellow Johnson?”

“No problem. Tom is out pulling a load of pine to Fort Kilimaka, so I could use the company. Let me introduce you to some folk.”

Al took Mazelton around the little clusters of people, introducing him as “Fellow Mazelton, from East Pesskia” and people magically stopped asking where he was from. Instead, they asked him his trade. He told them. And somehow he became more attractive. Turned out that polishers were very rare around these parts. Goods flowed through here and away from here- they did not get manufactured here.

“Yeah, There are a couple of polishers based out of Dillywater a day or so’s sail from here, at the mouth of the Mud Dragon River. Then there is Maggie who tours the little villages around here, mostly recharging cores. I think she said she could polish, but I don’t think I have ever seen her do it. Mostly they get shipped in from Fish Weir. Expensive.”

An old bantam in a fuzzy wool jacket declared. Al nodded along.

“Don’t Maggie make bug repellent?”

“She says she can.”

“I can make insect killer cores. And light cores and food purifiers and, well, a lot more things.” Mazelton gave his business smile. Mother had made him practice it until it looked real.

“Oooh! Oooh! Can you make hot weapons?” A shock headed little hellion asked.

“Can I? Yes. Can I make ones that can be used safely by non-polishers? No. Honestly, most of the time a sling is a better bet.”

“Psh. Yeah, right.”

“Decently thick jacket stops some kinds of heat. Don’t stop a stone to the head. Plus they generally have a longer range. Try one out if you don’t believe me.”

This got the hellion thinking and their outraged father squawking.

“Are you going to open your own shop?”

“Not around here, I don’t think. I’m planning on heading out to the far west.”

“Frontiersman, are you?”

“Not really, but I heard they can use polishers out there.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure! Nearest ones to them would be the Sea Folk-“

“And they don’t trade. At least, not that way.”

“You can do deals with them.” An older man jumped in, his curly toque bobbing with authority. “You just have to know how and what for.”

“Dusty World, here we go again…”

“When I shipped out to the Western Wastes, I made it all the way to the far coast. Now let me tell you…”

The old timer slid into the broken in shoes of his story, which trod an interesting road for Mazelton, but clearly were lethally smelly to the rest of the cluster. Al forcibly dragged Mazelton away.

“Woof. Sorry about that buddy.”

“Actually, I don’t know much about traveling in a wagon train. Is he a good source for that?”

“Not the worst, but you have to keep in mind that he was in a mercenary company as a spear carrier thirty years ago. He really did see some stuff along the way, but you would be better off asking someone doing caravan work right now. I’ll take you to see Jer, she runs mules out to YellowKnife.”

“Thanks. Say, I was meaning to ask,” Mazelton waved his hand around. “No offense, but it looks like the designer had a thing for wiggles and an abiding hatred of matchy matchy plants.”

Al barked out a laugh.

“You aren’t wrong. How much do you know about renaissance?”

“As much as anyone who hasn’t done it, I guess.”

“So… not much then. When a renaissance is planned, you gotta think about layered systems. Every part of the ecosystem needs to be built up- water, dirt, organic material in the dirt, bacteria in the dirt, fungus, bugs, worms, so on up to trees and finally, people. It’s all connected, but it doesn't really work if you try and do everything all at once. Gotta shape the land to restore the water, then ground cover, shrubs, then let time do some work. Let the virtuous cycle start running and everything helps everything else to grow and progress. See where I am going with this?”

“I guess? This is the site of a renaissance.”

“Yeah, but not just any- it was ten elders who spent the last few years of their lives studying this spot, where the light fell, where the wind came from, everything about it. They made maps, figuring out what plants would help each other and suppress pests while also generating the maximum amount of food and useful space. How you could plant different things in different places and different heights to create different levels of light, heat and humidity for other plants. It looks wild, but every rock and tree in here is doing several jobs.”

“Huh. Impressive.”

“You haven’t heard the best part. It’s more productive than most dirt farms. No such thing as a Dusty with scurvy in Sky’s Echo.”

“When you say more productive-”

“Fewer crops lost to pests, better soil, more viable produce as every plant is growing in close to optimal conditions. The calories per Hectare we get are unmatched on land. You can’t really tell in the winter, but every piece of this place works together. Even the wind break up north makes truffles, provides mulch, makes tea- everything works together. A positive system where the whole world wins.”

Mazelton looked up at the darkening sky. “Yeah, that sounds just about perfect. I’d like to see that some day.”

Al Johnson’s home was a short, stout, timber clad building with an impressively long, thick chimney. Oddly short- the peak of the sharply sloped roof was barely over Mazelton’s head, and Al was at least two hands taller. The roof was thatched with what Mazelton had learned to recognize as Kelly grass, unlike the wood shingle or flat board roofs around them. Much was made clear as Mazelton found steps cut down into the earth, leading to a submerged door.

“So much work to dig this out, but it was worth it. We rented some earth breaking remnants from Fish Weir, had’em shipped over special with a work crew and let them get to work. They broke up the hard pack, Tom hauled away the dirt with his aurochs, kept going like this until we had the biggest hole this side of a mine. Lined it with slate and concrete to keep the water out, which was a whole other big job, then insulated that with sawdust and a layer of pine board. See how nice it looks? It’s the lacquer. Get good, thin layers of a super clear lacquer, it will look pretty for decades.”

The interior was almost uniformly pale yellow, the little light cores bouncing their beams merrily about. The thick shutters had been pulled over the windows already, and the heat stone was keeping the place remarkably warm.

“Then Tom had the big brainwave- Water is the enemy of roofs and foundations, right? But we know something that repels water like nobody’s business- the Kelly grass they grow way over on the other side of Fish Weir. Expensive to ship it all this way, but at this point… we were in too deep. We had to do it!”

Mazelton nodded understandingly, not understanding what manner of madness had possessed this seemingly well to do couple.

“Boom! Most waterproof, leak proof, snow proof, ICE proof thatched ceiling in Sky’s Echo. Get that chimney up so that we have good ventilation if we get snowed in, make sure the pantry is huge… in case we get snowed in… make sure there is a big cistern…”

“In case you get snowed in?”

“Yep. And Tom and I both like hot baths, you know? Nothing like it after a day hauling and cutting timber.”

Mazelton’s lips twitched.

“You guys could afford all this on a timber cutting salary? Generous clans.”

“Huh? No, it’s not a clan thing. Tom and I had “building a forever home” as part of our contract renewal. Open ended.” Al said with a trace of shyness. Mazelton smiled and nodded.

“And, well, we don’t just cut and haul trees. We do the forestry too. And we, ah, own a piece of a sawmill.”

“Oh, nice! Congratulations. You say it’s not a clan thing?”

“Yeah, people have families out this way, of course, sometimes real big families, but not clans. None of that level of organization. Once you are old enough to marry out, you are expected to get out and start supporting yourself. Course you help if your kin is in need, but this and that are two different things, right?”

No, absolutely not. “Sure.”

“My dads were fisherfolk. I, on the other hand, get sea sick on wet grass. So the woods called to me. I still see them once a month or so. Tom’s family have been woodfolk for epochs, apparently, so it was natural for him.”

“Wow. Hard to imagine what it took to endure that long.” Mazelton didn’t realize it, but he had started swaying slightly.

“They managed it one day at a time, I expect. Speaking of, would you like a hot bath yourself? Or maybe head straight to bed.”

“Bed sounds great, but I can’t sleep just yet. Got to talk with the Humble.”

“He’ll understand. C'mon. I’ll set you up a bed.”

The sofa in front of the heat stone folded flat into a sort of hard mattress on a platform. Mazelton had never seen anything like it, but figured it was more than good enough. He sat to pull off his socks while Al went to get a pillow. Al returned to a sleeping Mazelton, sitting up, one bare foot in the air.

Humble Dougal invited Mazelton out for breakfast and a bit of a chat. He had read the letter, and had some thoughts.

“Not many people are willing to be a chess piece. Are you sure you want to do this? You could lead a very, very comfortable life here. No offense, but I really doubt you are worth the Confeds tracking down all the way out here.”

“We aren’t even two weeks away from the Cold North Sea. And I think they would find a reason to care. So, yeah. Keep running west.”

Breakfast was a bowl of wheat porridge topped with some red flakes that tasted gently of citrus. He had no idea what it was.

“Sorry, topic change, what’s this red stuff? Tastes sweet and citrusy.”

“Sumac. Grows wild around here. You just need to be careful what you harvest, as some varieties are poison. I’m told it tastes like lemons, but…”

Mazelton nodded.

“Two weeks inland is further away than you might think. But if your mind is made up, then we will do our best to help you.”

Humble Dougal pushed his spoon around his bowl.

“So, you have traveled across half the continent in… less than three weeks?”

“I was sick for a while, not really sure how long I was under Humble Iolan’s care. But in terms of how long I was intentionally traveling? About three weeks or so.”

“I am afraid you may have a… somewhat unrealistic notion of how the next phase of your journey will go.”

“Wagon train, right? I know it takes longer, months, than going by boat.”

“Yes and no. Yes it takes longer, much longer, but the pace is inconsistent.” Humble Dougal started to tap the air with his spoon, tracing an invisible chain of dots between their table and New Scandi.

“It’s not about the mileage, but the conditions. Let's say it’s a little more than half a day to a stretch of river. You are on a well run wagon train and you set out just after dawn. You reach the river mid afternoon, having stopped for lunch. Now, getting the boats on rafts or pontoons or whatever takes time. Caulking the wagons is possible too. So now it’s evening. You have to camp and spend the night there, leaving, again, a bit after dawn. And now you have to cross the river, and most of the wagons are pulled by auroch but not all of them, so you have animals, different kinds of animals, on makeshift rafts that may panic , or be a piece of remnant tech that chooses that moment to decide to explode. And once you got to the other side, a man who was fine at breakfast is voiding every last bit of fluid outside his body and dies. If he is buried, he is buried in a shallow grave somewhere right next to the trail, or under it. There is a decent chance that many of the bumps you feel on the trail are corpses. Oh, and most of the wagon train will be walking, because the wagons are a lot smaller than you think, and horribly uncomfortable to ride in."

Humble Dougal aimed his spoon at Mazelton’s nose. “We haven’t even begun to discuss the wonderful, life affirming word that is “dust.” But don’t worry, you will hear all about dust in exhaustive detail from the people who have survived it.”

Mazelton winced.

“But on to more pressing matters. Wagon trains have either stopped running for the winter, or are limiting themselves to short hauls locally. It’s still a little early for snow, but when the snow comes around here, it comes in quantity and sticks around. Put it this way- you aren’t leaving Sky’s Echo until spring.”

“I… hadn’t really considered that. Obvious now that you say it.”

“Yep. Which means we got to figure out where you are going to sleep, how you are going to eat, and what you can do to put yourself in the best position to succeed when you hit New Scandi.”

“Ah. Right. Also obvious once you say it.”

Humble Dougal smiled, a bit of twinkle sneaking into brown eyes.

“Thermal regulation, that is, staying warm, is the number one thing in the winter. Cold is the enemy. So shelter is at a premium, as are heat stones, and as winter closes in, food. Guessing you never stocked a pantry for winter?”

“Don’t actually know how to cook, so… no.”

“Oof. Well, no need to despair. I think you are going to be a very popular houseguest for quite a while.”