It had never occurred to Mazelton that one could pay for one’s lodgings with core recharging. People around here mostly used rushlights, with the mildly well to do displaying their light cores with studied indifference. Hanging a core light above your door was strictly for taverns, brothels, and warehouses. This led to some oddities, like people preferring harshly white light from their cores, so nobody seeing the light from their windows would mistake it for the warmer yellows of a rushlight. And they wanted them bright. Very bright. Because they probably only had one, and wanted to get the most use out of it that they could. Which meant they often needed charging.

Mazelton was, indeed, a very popular guest. Even the poorest person would have a heating stone, even if it was a fragment barely a hand’s width across. Those same poor folk would often keep their stone fragments tucked under their bed, as they weren’t enough to heat a small shack in the winter.

He would have laughed, or been horrified, had he known people were deliberately breaking heat stones, in the days where he danced on the table tops and in strange shrines to unknowable gods. Tumors were a certainty. Death was a certainty. But he got it now. Everybody dies. Just a matter of when and how. Cold would kill you right away, while tumors might kill you years from now. For a lot of people, it was an easy choice. So Mazelton charged a lot of heat stones too, while casually, and strongly, suggesting that they at least seal the edges with concrete or something. HIs hosts always agreed, and never did it.

Though he could occasionally persuade them to invest in a heat sponge. “Really, you are making money doing nothing. Where are you going to find a better deal than that?” Oh, what an ancient scam!

The heat sponges were bamboo canisters stuffed with wood pulp processed into a sort of porous, radiation absorbing sponge. There were vents at the top and bottom, with a miniscule bit of core dust two thirds of the way up. The tiny bit of core dust generated a tiny bit of heat which was mostly (but not completely) trapped by the air pockets in the sponge. Enough hot air escaped to make a teensey bit of an air pressure differential, drawing a bit of the cold dusty air from the floor inside of it. It slowly, passively, drew in core dust and irradiated dust from around itself, the process accelerating as more dust piled up inside. Then, when the sponge was “full,” generally considered to be when you could hear the air whooshing in or the canister was hot to the touch, you took it to a polisher who either charged your heat stone in exchange, or maybe gave you a few rads more than what you paid for the sponge.

Polishers strangely neglected to mention that the accumulated dust was far, far more valuable than a bit of core heat, or that bamboo and processed pulp were the next best things to free, meaning that every sponge meant a polisher would profit twice from one sale.

The really big money on sponges came from prospectors. Whatever the epoch, there were cores, and as technology advanced, so did the power requirements. A smart prospector always took as many sponges as they could reasonably carry, to protect themselves and to make at least a small profit from the expedition. With winter closing in, the prospectors would be returning to the city, looking to offload their sponges and scrape together enough rads to get through the winter. Mazelton was only too happy to help them convert sponges into heat stones, light cores and even food purifiers- assuming they had enough heat on them.

It wasn’t enough to live on by itself, but it was income, and a welcome one. Nobody likes being reliant on the kindness of strangers.

Mazelton stared up at the ceiling. He was on day three of his week-long residency on the floor of the kitchen in a restaurant owned by a friend of a friend of a coven member introduced to Mazelton by the Humble Dougal. The grand cooking range took a great deal of core heat to recharge, and while draining the sponges sped up the process, it was only “speeding up.” Mass was mass, and converting the stable, dead rock back into decaying, hot rock, took an immense amount of energy and time. To cover meals, he also refreshed the carvings on the light cores and the food purifiers. He had asked if he could watch them cook, but was firmly ejected once he started throwing up.

They ate fish in Sky’s Echo. Of course they did. The fisherfolk all ate fish. They ate fish as he traveled from SouthPort to Fish Weir. Even in Old Radler, eating wild caught fish was just considered a sinful indulgence. A bit like spending too much time with your lover instead of your spouse.

It was the gutting and the roasting of the fish. Mazelton watched people, basically ok people, just hack the head and tails off the fish, slit their bellies open with long, thin blades then just… scrape away the innards. The gray, coiling worms inside their bellies, that reminded him of all the bits that fell out of the chickens and over his hands as he took them apart. As he butchered, literally butchered and humiliated their corpses. As he defiled their flesh and his. He could smell the burning chicken flesh as it stuck to the stovetop, smelled the sizzling fat and it was too much. He held it together long enough for someone to shove his head out the back door, but neither he, nor his hosts, ever suggested he return to the kitchen.

One of the junior cooks offered to show him how to cut vegetables. Mazelton gratefully accepted. He wasn’t very good, but his hands were steady so progress wasn’t too slow. He remembered how the carrots felt in his hands, tried to visualize it as he looked at the stained ceiling. It helped to think of it as a sort of carving. Food art was a real, if niche, skill, but nobody around here knew how to do it. Maybe it could be another sideline? If he could figure out how to do it, of course.

A sideline. So he could build up more capital. So that he could flee further in more comfort, to a more comfortable exile, to wait for death. He had no desire to end his own life, but he did wonder if it made a big difference if he died now or a bit later. Being a polisher, and thus half a grave robber, the only honest answer was… no. No, whatever difference he might make, however big or trivial, would, in the final accounting, come to nothing.

This was one of the tenants of the Worshipful, wasn’t it? That nothing lasts forever, that all pain and joy eventually return to balance, that this, too, shall pass. That the only moment that exists is now, and in this infinitely small instant, you are possessed of infinite freedom. That, since everything would return to dust, now was the only moment that truly mattered. So you might as well be cheerful and make the world a better place, because who wants to spend their only moment of existence being miserable?

Easy to say. Easy to say, hard to believe. Memories intruded unbidden. He danced with Loi Pellenoil on stage at a party they weren’t invited to. They were both wearing masks, but hell, everyone knew. Were the Pellenoils in on the coup with the Cabells? They more or less split the rookeries between them, hard to believe they didn’t know anything about it. But he kept coming back to dancing with Loi, and that little shimmy shoulder flick he did every time he finished a turn, like it was cool or impressive. When the dance ended, Mazelton had told him it was dumb as hell. They parted in anger. Was Loi dead? Did we kill him? Could he have made a friend and found out about the coup and maybe stopped it?

Maybe. Maybe. Loi wasn’t exactly a hurricane lily, but he was similar. He might have known something.

Idiotic to think that one disgraceful junior could have stopped the tide rushing in like that. Idiotic. But nobody had ever accused him of being too brainy, had they? No, he danced, and drank and made his pointless shiny geegaws while the rest of the Clan worked.

He didn’t want to be tortured to death by the Confeds. He didn’t want to be made an example of.

Mazelton just wanted to dig a hole somewhere in the woods, line it with leaves, and pull the dirt over himself like a blanket. He would wrap himself around some seeds, so that come spring, they could be reborn into the world. It would be quiet and nothing would hurt. In the warmth of that image, Mazelton finally fell asleep.

Humble Dougal waved Mazelton over as the latter stared up at the falling snowflakes. He had seen them before, of course, but they tended to be a bare dusting around Old Radler. All the densely packed people and their heat seemed to drive them away. Watching the fat flakes wiggle their way to earth was interesting. He never would have thought snow could be clumpy in the air, but here it was- clumping.

“Brother Mazelton, I hoped I would catch you here. How are you settling in?”

“Hard to settle in when you move every few nights, but… well enough. I am getting a feel for the town, which is good.”

“And a feel for the local trade?”

“Such as it is, yes.”

Dougal nodded.

“Right. And you see why I said staying here would be lucrative.”

Mazelton looked Dougal in the eye, and the Humble winced internally. Somehow those eyes were even deader than when Mazelton had arrived.

“I don’t really want to stay here.”

“I can see that. Well, have you picked a plot of land yet?”

Mazelton stared blankly at the Humble.

“A plot of land? In New Scandi? Where you are going to live?”

Mazelton continued to stare.

“Ah. OK, so unless you are going to live with someone, you are going to need a place to live. And that means buying a lease for some land. The land there is pretty cheap, so if you are really hard up we can pass the boot and help you out. More than we were going to, I mean.”

“I don’t even know where to do that. Or how.”

“Well. First thing to do would be to check in with the Sky Runner Tribe’s factor. He keeps a little storefront over by the caravansary, as they run most of the post between here and the Great Green Isle. He’s got a sort of help wanted board, so you can see if someone is offering an arrangement you are ok with. For example- lodging if you agree to work as a farm hand, or something. Obviously it would be a bit different for you, but…”

Mazelton nodded.

“So depending on what you see there, you could either write a letter to the person offering the position, or you could push on to the factor for the Thousand Bird Sangha and start looking at a plot map for the settlement. Still a lot of great land to grab.”

“Right. Good storefront area, or something. I won’t need warehouse space, but a shop I can sleep in would be good.”

“Yes, but you should also keep in mind that you will want at least a small area to garden. Being able to grow at least some of your own food will be crucial.”

Mazelton closed his eyes. He had no idea how to do that.

“You have no idea how to do that?”

“None.”

“Fortunately, you will be surrounded by farmers, and people used to homesteading, both here and in New Scandi. But before you worry about that- go check out the Sky Runners.”

The factor looked over Mazelton and seemed to find him worthy of approval. The factor was much the same sort of person- long and lean, though their hair was short cropped.

“Job board for New Scandi?”

The factor nodded silently and waived at one of the sliding walls that covered half the large room. Jobs, missing persons, invitations, any sort of flier was posted up on the Sky Runners’ sliding walls, each wall being a settlement or territory.

“How did you find them all?” Mazelton wondered.

“We know all the roads and trails. Sooner or later someone will turn up on them, and want to talk to the rest of the world.” The factor shrugged. “We’ve been doing it for epochs, so this is pretty normal for me. Also Sky’s Echo is a natural cross road, so we have more boards than most places.”

Mazelton nodded, stunned by what he was seeing. So many shopping lists. Recruitments for prospecting expeditions. So many help wanted signs, offering room, board and good conditions if only the right person would respond to their advertisement. The New Scandi “board” didn’t rate an entire wall, but it still boasted a respectable cluster of fliers. He slowly read through them. So many were written in the exact same hand- must be a town scribe, or at least someone literate willing to help out their neighbors. Decent fist, nothing flashy. Mazelton snorted quietly. He would die of shame if he wrote that, and die twice if it went public.

Mazelton’s aesthetic snobbery quickly steered his attention to a letter written in a boxy, tidy script, evenly spaced on perfectly straight rows. It looked a bit like a studious child’s copy book, and somehow that was irresistibly charming. It was just so unpretentious. He nearly fell over when he stubbed his eye on the caption.

Husband Wanted

Oh please dear Dusty World, Father Sun and Mother Moon and all the myriad Ælfflæd, let it be some minor clan looking to have someone marry in…

“I, the Woman Danae Okempi, being this year nineteen and newly widowed, am seeking to take a husband in contract for a period of not less than one year.”

Mazelton had an awkward moment of trying to pick the right expletive, and failing. Just too many to choose from. A nineteen year old widow?! Where was her family? Or her spouse?! Husband or whatever, who cares, where were their clans? In Kickapoo?

“My late husband was a godly, provident man, so I have a well founded farm situated on the main road through New Scandi- Plot Ten on the Thousand Birds map. Our orchard is established, the heat is moderate and the scenery is wonderful. I am not willing to consider children in the first year of marriage, but should our union prove sound, I would consider it thereafter, subject to rebid and renegotiation.”

Does that mean she already has a child? Or she just wants to see if the husband sticks around long enough to make it feasible? What kind of person even thinks that way?!

“I am looking for a Dusty man of sound body no younger than sixteen or older than thirty that comes with his own trade or, if a farmer, comes well supplied to improve what I’ve already got. I will offer reciprocal terms, but at the least, you must be willing to walk the hard roads and yet find the soft grasses to sit upon. Some sense of beauty and wonder in the world, but not be lost in it, I suppose. If you are willing to begin a negotiation, include your details, what you offer and some manner of picture of yourself in reply.

In all sincerity,

Danae Okempi

Mazelton just shook his head and walked away, unwilling to indulge this absurd board one moment longer. Shameful. Just shameful. Grotesque, really. This… person, this beast with presumably only two legs, had simply absorbed whatever resources and land their clans provided, or at least that her late husband’s clan provided, and was now looking for fresh grazing. No mention of returning the land. No mention of their families at all and she specifically wrote that children, the whole blasted point of a marriage, were a maybe. Just pure nightmare fuel.

He made his way back to the Sacred Grove and sat on a convenient rock. Was this just how the world was away from the Eastern Edge? The sheer animal greed of it all sickened him. My business plan. My profit. What can you do for me? The seemingly total lack of any concept of family bonds. Maybe it was eating all that hunted flesh and fish. He knew they took birds and game in the woods. Oh yes they did, and plead necessity and survival. Is that how this… Danae creature justified herself? Necessity and survival?

Hah. Maybe she was eating carrion. Maybe they all were.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Mazelton spasmed clean off the rock in shock. The voice of Humble Dougal came out of nowhere, that nowhere being situated right beside him. Dougal barked out a laugh.

“Didn’t think you were that out of it. Sorry.”

“No, I was just thinking. No problem.”

“Wonder about that.”

“Mmm?”

“You got problems.”

Mazelton paused for a moment, and being fresh out of concern for his fellow humans, opted for honesty.

“I am kind of concerned about the moral degenerates I have run into, and I’m more concerned about the fact that everyone seems to agree that they aren’t any such things.”

Dougal boggled a little at that.

“Could you explain that a bit more?”

So he did. Dougal’s boggling intensified, and by the end the Humble was holding his head in his hands.

“So to sum up- anything other than a tight knit band of relatives operating as a single collective unit for the collective benefit of the unit is… immoral?”

“I mean, that’s an oversimplification, but yes.”

“Oof.”

“I mean, I don’t claim I come from a family of perfect people. But nobody went hungry. Nobody was worthless, you know? I was the black sheep of my generation, but I still contributed. Nobody tried to pretend I wasn’t part of the clan.”

Dougal was looking around, clearly hunting for a way to communicate.

“Mazelton, how long has your clan lasted?”

“Nobody really knows.” Mazelton said with a touch of pride. “We can prove three epochs on this continent, and we know that there are Ma on at least two others. Family lore says that of the four thousand breeding pairs left after the Long Night Collapse, seven of them were Ma. Imagine that- out of only eight thousand humans left on the continent, fully fourteen of them were Ma. Not that we can prove that, but still.”

“So… an incomprehensibly long time, then. Long enough that the calendars would have changed several times.”

Mazelton nodded.

“But everyone you have met doesn't have that. Three or four generations of lineage is normal-to-long.”

“Because they-”

“Because they chose a different survival strategy.”

Now it was Mazelton’s turn to look boggled. Dougal looked at him and shook his head.

“I feel like I would be failing you as a Humble if I didn't straighten you out on all this, but I don’t know if I can before spring comes. You said that the point of marriage is kids, and generating and preserving enough resources to raise those kids to the point where they can have kids?”

“Yes?”

“Well, think of the contract that way. Instead of relying on tradition, each family is specifying the terms of what, exactly, marriage means to them. For most folks, that does include kids, and terms for how to provide for those kids. But not every marriage has to have kids to be meaningful, nor does it have to hoard rads.”

“I guess?”

“Right. And this Danae Okempi no doubt had a contract with her late husband that covered the division of property after their death, kids, all that. Keep in mind that while it is “her” farm, New Scandi is a Dusty canton so if she died without an heir, the land would belong to the New Scandi Coven, not to whatever family she might have out there.”

“Ah. Right. I had honestly forgotten that.”

“Same goes for any land you might buy. Is it the short term thing that is bothering you?”

“Well, that’s part of it. Marriage was for life, in my family.”

“Didn’t you just say both of your parents had lovers?”

“Oh, well yes. Neither of them were much interested in the opposite gender. I understand that they used some aphrodisiacs and a lot of imagination when they tried to conceive. So, yes. Lovers. Uncle Malelio and Aunt Maleai.”

Mazelton sniffed.

“Going to miss them.”

Dougal’s stare had progressed from boggled to horrified.

“Sorry, just to be clear, your parents were forced to marry people they didn’t have any attraction to, forced to conceive and then just… what, shared a room? Stayed with their lovers? And they told you all this?”

Mazelton looked blank.

“Well, of course they did. It was hardly a secret. I mean, not every clan marriage was exactly like that, but plenty of them were. As long as all the partners were clanfolk and no kids came of it, who cares what bed you slept in?”

“Still on the forced marriage and forced conception thing, sorry.”

“Forced is a strong word. It was an arranged marriage, traditional everywhere. They were a good pairing. Even they agreed they were a good pairing. They just didn’t like each other much.”

“Mazelton, I think you may be missing some fairly major points here.”

Dougal looked at the sun setting over the spruce and knew just how it felt.