The East wind blew bitter cold from across the Blackwater Sea, not yet ready to cede spring to the green grass and pale whites and blues of the wildflowers. Back east, inland, the wind might have ruffled their petals like a mischievous older brother. Here, on the edge of the wilds, the winds were a cruel father, pushing everyone down until they grew hard enough to push back. But they did grow, in the alleys and neglected corners of Sky’s Echo, stubborn and mulish and unafraid of Mazelton’s heavy boots. He pressed through the mud, long past worrying about dirtying his clothes. He stomped firmly as he reached the wooden sidewalk, then scraped what could be scraped of the muck and animal feces off his boots by the door of the monastery.

“Venerable.” Mazelton pressed the pinky and the thumb of his left hand to the corners of his mouth, inclining his head with about as much respect as a lay brother in the ass end of nowhere was entitled to.

“Benefactor Ma. How great to see you again.” The lay brother extended the pinkies and thumbs of his two closed fists and touched the pinkies to the corners of his mouth, matching Mazelton’s nod.

Mazelton pulled a carefully folded paper from inside his coarse woolen coat.

“Eight thousand, seven hundred Rad, bonded. Check the seal.”

“Benefactor, this little half monk wouldn’t dare doubt your word!” The lay brother said, as he examined the seal under a magnifying lens, watching the fluorescence as his tools trickled radiation across the synthetic polymers and all too organic material of the seal.

“Your faith is inspiring, on several levels.” Mazelton watched the lay brother judge his winter’s work, near six months of missed meals and frigid nights, blessing stable masters for letting him sleep for cheap in the straw next to the chevs and aurochs. Every saved Rad went to this bond, a bond this chubby swine was examining like it was a whore who swore he was clean.

“Blessed, blessed. These are ugly times, and we should be grateful for them! What better mirror for our own faults?” The lay brother noted the amount, issuer and serial of the bond in his ledger. “Does Benefactor still desire Plot Twelve?”

Mazelton nodded.

“I do.”

“Benefactor understands that the property is in Terra Nullius? That Plot Twelve is still considered too hot for habitation and cultivation? That it has no road access and an easement for passage must be negotiated with the owner of Plot Ten?”

“I do.”

“Benefactor understands all the terms, covenants and duties inherent in buying land from The Reclusive Honorable Tree and Thousand Birds Sangha? Particularly that while you do own the lot, it is functionally a transferable Three Nines lease?”

Mazelton nodded again.

“I do.”

“Then I must ask the Benefactor to place his thumb print on the map, as I prepare the deed and conveyances.”

Mazelton showed his soft city side- rather than simply bite his thumb, he pricked it with his belt knife. As the purple blood pooled, he directed a sliver of his core’s heat into the droplet. The blood became irradiated, that unique harmony of shaking atoms that was his alone. He pressed his thumb over Plot Twelve of the New Scandi property map. He rolled his thumb from edge to edge, letting the irradiated blood seep and bond irreversibly with the map. The rest of the paperwork was routine, though it felt like an entire yuga passed as the lay brother drew up the deed. He was, in Mazelton’s opinion, entirely too casual with his thumb print.

“Good fortune, Benefactor. I hope the land is a sturdy foundation upon which to build your dreams.”

“Would you think less of me if I wished for dreamless nights, Venerable?”

“Never.”

“Because you never think of me?”

“Not true. Every time this little monk snuggles under his warm duvet next to the heater, I think of you. I will continue to think of you, especially around mealtimes.”

“Goodbye, Venerable.”

“Farewell, Benefactor Ma. Perhaps in your next life you will bother to learn my name.”

Mazelton strode to the edge of town, to the caravansary and the cluster of tiny offices girdling it. More little crocuses and six petaled wonders nipped at his heels, not that he noticed. The greening buds on the trees were a calendar, not a sonnet. He made his way to the thick, dark blue door, with a lighter blue auroch painted on it. The moon rested between the aurochs’ horns. He knocked twice, waited two heartbeats, announced himself, and slowly opened his soon to be bosses’ door.

Policlytus looked like a gnarly bit of knotted, weathered fir or cedar. A stump rubbed well with it’s own seeping tar and dried by the sun and mountain winds.

“You buy that lot?”

“Yesser I did.”

Policlytus offered a crooked smile and a small round of applause. Mazelton accepted, as rejecting the gifts of the person who will be keeping you alive is bad practice.

“Good for you! And just in time too- we head out in a week.”

Mazelton just nodded. He could read a calendar, and the departure date had never changed.

“Sky Runners' factor dropped round earlier. Mail come for you. Danae.”

The letter was battered, stamped and apostille affixed by whichever caravan or courier last passed by New Scandi, reproduced somehow on the coarse pulp paper the Sky Runners used. Danae hand stayed as firm as ever, the blocky letters carefully carved along faint ruler traces.

My (hopefully soon to be) Dear Mazelton,

Nothing quite like four ken up, and six ken across, of snow between you and the outhouse to make you really miss company, or at least another body to swing a shovel. Which I suppose is my delicate way of saying that if you can close on Plot Twelve, I will happily give you that easement and my hand in a five year marriage contract. If you can’t, well, let's call it a one year contract with an option to extend, same terms as we agreed already.

A polisher can earn his keep just about anywhere, I figure. You can set up shop in the barn, and trade out of there too. Unless you got the land, in which case I look forward to seeing just what you have in mind.

I wish I hadn’t opened with the outhouse thing. It’s beautiful here, and while the snows are nothing to laugh about, we wouldn’t get them if it wasn’t so much warmer than the plains. The smell alone is worth the trip. Balsam and cedar and fir and a dozen other woods that spread their scent over the snow. Like warm spice dusted over a cold drink you sip with every breath. The mountains so huge and tall, but you feel like you could just reach out and pet them. You will love it, I promise.

The romantic in me hopes that as you fall in love with this land, we will fall in love with each other. Didn’t know there was a romantic in me. Looking forward to what else I discover with you.

Very Truly Yours

Danae

“What’s a “Ken?” Mazelton asked.

“Was she talking about distance? About, oh, one of your paces. Old Ixtili measure. Guess Danae is their stock.”

Mazelton made a silent, panting sort of laugh.

“That’s some shoveling job when you need a shit.”

Policlytus just shook his head.

“Speaking of, how you fixed for supplies?”

“Pretty good. Most of the kit is off the list Nimu put up,” He waived at the blue Auroch flag on the wall, “Anything I missed was things like anvils or plows, spare wheels and the like. Replaced it with polishing supplies and a few luxuries.”

Policlytus frowned at this.

“Luxuries is dangerous on the trail. Just what did you pack?”

“Mostly spices, powdered herbs, dried soup mix, dried kelp, dried mushrooms, herb seeds, so many beans, peas, lentils, some fruit seeds that will bear true, a small library of core etched books… and fifty water of second grade milled cane sugar. Straight up the Mud Dragon River from the mills, direct order.”

Policlytus let out a long, slow whistle.

“That cost more than a rad.”

“Five year contract, the easement, and she’s a young widow. She’s reaching out, and her hand isn't empty.”

“Best you fill your hand and reach back.” Policlytus agreed. “Five years? Damn. My first marriage was six weeks no renewal without rebid. And she didn’t rebid.”

Mazelton managed a polite wince.

“Maybe she wasn’t the frontier type?”

“And miss all this glory?” Polyclitus waived grandly at the coarse board walls decorated with one shelf, one flag and an elk skull. The floor was, understandably, not carpeted, and the stove burned dried auroch dung. There were no windows. Lighting came from some ancient core lights wrapped in thin bark to cut the glare. In Mazelton’s opinion, based on extensive experience with vermin control cores, the lack of vermin in this “office” was down entirely to them being killed off by all the auroch farts burning their way through the walls.

My Quite Definitely Dear Danae,

Mazelton was always torn with what voice to use when he wrote Danae. He wanted to come off as a rough and ready frontiersman, but knew that illusion would pop as soon as they met. So he wrote in his normal voice, hating how incredibly pompous it must sound to her. Danae was kind enough not to mention, but he knew.

The north wind rips and howls around the eaves, the flags snapping and grumbling as the branches shake off the last of the winter snows. I spotted Enki birds rising up out of the east this morning, flying west, knotting themselves in their vast flocks around the newly roused swarms of black flies. All undeterred by the wind. I know an omen when I see one.

Mazelton’s penmanship was excellent, the very best he could manage. The swoops and swirls of the characters echoed the natural images in the passage, the “Harmonious Fist and Ink” of Old Razler. A letter to an intimate should be a treasure to both make and receive, a sacrificial offering to the relationship.

With glad omens come good news- I now own the freehold on Plot 12. I am joyful and honored to enter this contract with you. I will make no casual oath, but do promise that I shall spare no effort to make it a successful and fruitful union. Five years- time enough to see if I can grow new roots in new lands. And I don’t come empty handed. Our fellow Dusties have been immensely generous with supplies- I shall miss none of the essentials along the way. I will be well founded upon arrival, and I have managed to fill most of your shopping list too. Along with a few small treasures I cannot wait to surprise you with.

I am laughing at myself. I wrote several letters in my head, each carefully prepared for whatever circumstances arose. Yet now all I can think of is “I am going home.” Home to a place I have never seen, to a woman I know only by her letters, trusting in the intimacy of the vast sky and ancient mountains. My preparations are useless, and I must simply ride the winds west. To you.

Memories rose unbidden, how the warehouses and apartments burned, the black smoke boiling out of them. Fires so vast they turned the sky yellow, then red, then near black. Fires so vast that even hours later, pedaling for his life, he choked on the ashes of his family and patrimony, hearing the butcher's knives rubbing behind him.

Mazelton rested his head upon the table, trying not to think. He pinched and squeezed his earlobe, tried to order his breath, tried to recite the Warm Sun litany. Maybe it worked, eventually. He set the letter aside. Post wasn’t going to leave until tomorrow anyhow. Might as well go earn.

Saetang General Good Store smelled of menthol and turpentine. The whitewashed walls were decorated with abstract murals of the sun and trees, or a jaunty sailboat racing over calm waters. Neat hanks of rope were next to pulleys, which were next to shovels and so on. Rows and tables, covered in the minutiae of life on both land and sea. Needles were often skipped over, and sorely missed. Made of fine steel, gleaming brightly in their cases- S needles, needles for stitching hide or thick canvas, hooked needles for stitching a wound, tiny little needles for stitching fine cloth and making those invisible mends that transformed a destitute shit-kicker into a yeoman. Not cheap, but absolutely worth it. The needles were in large, clear resin clamshells next to the register, lest they accidentally fall into the pockets of honest customers. Iron nails were behind the counter with the medicine and weaponry- Saetang was an optimist, not dumb.

Like general goods stores everywhere, Saetang sold refined cores. Unpolished cores came in, purchased for an only somewhat criminal rate, and polished cores went out at a really quite reasonable markup. And if you disagreed, you could go somewhere else. Saetang spent a small fortune just building the supplier network, and the shipping cost? Forget it. So when a polisher came into town looking to do piece work at a low rate, Saetang pounced. It has been a wonderful winter for Saetang.

“I don’t know why you want to go out west. Nothing out there but trees, and we got trees right here. Plus you know I would be willing to take you on full time, if you were going to live here.” Saetang said. “I have a lovely niece, lives in Breakwater. She could move up here and you could set up in town. Or a nephew. Or whatever. Big family. Point is, stay here and work for me, live your best life.”

“Saetang. For the love of whatever you hold holy, please. This is the fifth time today. Just let me alone to work.”

Saetang sucked their teeth. “Just don’t want to see you dead on the side of the road. You know how fond I am of you.”

Mazelton marveled at that line as he carved. Saetang was indeed very fond of him. As a laborer. If his hands broke Saetang would deny ever knowing him. He sighed and gently put his number six rasp on a soft linen serviette, then set the half finished core on a tuft of felt. Barely the size of a carrot seed. Must have come from a rabbit or something.

“Any polisher is an amature historian and grave robber. I can see the tide of history moving, and it’s washing west. I just want to get far enough out ahead of it so that I am safely dead before it drowns me.”

Saetang just shook their head.

“A waste. Well work fast, I want as many pieces as you can make before Tuesday.”

“About that- You have about two hundred light cores in stock, and I’m betting enough heat stones to run out the spring. I was thinking of moving on to food and water purifiers and wound cleaners.”

Saetang tapped their lips.

“Yes to the wound cleaners, no to the food purifiers. Spring crops won’t be in for more than a month, soonest, and still enough ice to keep things frozen. Build Heat Sponges. Prospecting season will start as soon as the ground thaws all the way.”

Mazelton just shook his head.

“Fine. But instead of rads, I want every fifth sponge I make to be mine. Normal rate on the cleaners.”

“One in twenty.”

“All my major expenses are paid, and I have a bit saved up. Might just bum around and enjoy the last few days of civilization.”

“You don’t have that much saved up. One in twenty is generous.”

“No it isn’t, I know exactly how much everything costs, remember? One in five is fair. Your margins are three hundred percent as it is.”

Saetang’s eyes narrowed into slits. Negotiating without an informational advantage always felt like eating rotten fish.

“One in ten.”

“One in six, or I will set up a stall by the caravansary and just charge cores. Less work that way.”

“Dangerous to work by the caravansary. Bad people around, easy to be beaten, robbed and left naked in a manure pile.”

“Dangerous all over. With how flammable this building is, not to mention all the core dust, I can’t believe you actually sleep here.”

Saetang glared at Mazelton, who just opened his eyes to them and let them stare into the vast nothing inside.

“One in seven. Final offer.”

“Two in thirteen. Final offer.”

“You intend to haggle me down to the last MilliRad? I thought better of you!”

“Why?”

Saetang had to admit they were stumped there.

“Fine. FINE. See if I ever help you again. Two in thirteen. Much joy may they bring you.”

Mazelton just nodded and got back to carving. Same old drag.

The factor for the Sky Runners Tribe was swore the now routine delivery oath and Apostile for the letter to Danae, for which he was duly paid six heat sponges and thirty insect barrier cores. Mazelton reckoned he might have done it for just the insecticide, the black flies were starting to come out in force. Funny. He had learned to carve Insect Barrier as an exercise. You could hardly give them away in Old Radler, in his circles. The letter went out of the back office, as the physical post went to the traveling band outside.

The tribesmen loaded up their carry frames- the juniors using lightweight wood and bamboo, carrying the letters. The seniors, the full adults in the tribe, split up the heavy cargo, the traveling supplies and the foldable boats that would see them flying across the continent as though they were on wings. Twenty miles a day through a young forest or mountain. At least forty on good paths or rivers. No need for Chev’s or two wheelers. They would only slow them down. Mazelton watched them start their long run west.

The Sky Runners were an odd bunch. They claimed they were the true heirs of the Webspinners of the fourth Swabian Empire, back some four thousand years. And the Webspinners were (according to the Sky Runners, at least) just the Empire adopting the already existing Star River tribe and claiming they came up with the notion of dedicated couriers. Which made the Sky Runners the oldest continuously operating tribe in existence. According to the Sky Runners.

Mazelton wasn’t convinced they were even the oldest tribe in this part of the continent, but they sure as hell held the monopoly on courier work, so he kept his mouth shut. Old Radler could lay claim to ten thousand years of heritage, even if some of it was a bit questionable.

Would the annexation count as a severance of ten millennia of heritage? Surely not. It happened many times in the past. If nothing else, the First, Third and Fourth Swabian Empires annexed the Polis, the first burning down it’s walls and people with hot weapons, the defender’s skin boiling and sloughing off. Generations of children born deformed, sickly, dying young. The Third and Fourth Empires rolled in through open gates, threats and bribes working even faster than siege engines. And the Lochrian Federation was headquartered there, so that was kind of Old Radler annexing other places. But kind of not, too, because the real push for that was Xotlitaliczi, and Old Radler had to put up with the shame of being a beard for almost three hundred years.

Now the Confeds were taking over. Mazelton gave it six months before a newly appointed Strategoi respectfully announced that they would stand on the right side of history- with the Confederation. No justice for the Bo family, or the Xia clan, or the Ma’s. Just… history’s collateral damage. Along with the near million other souls that died due to “forbidden weapons used by revanchist parasites who died horribly by their own devices.”

Mazelton watched the Sky Runners laugh, yanking on each other’s carrying frames to make sure they were secure. A last minute drink of water for everyone. Then the Road Song, the running cadence and oral history of the Sky Runners begin, and the band set out. The easy cadence seemed to let them glide over the land. Anyone can do it, they claimed, if they just put in the time.

Mazelton’s eyes went unfocused. He lost himself between the trees and the gray sky and the droning chant of the Runners and just existed as a bubble of futility. He didn’t know why he hadn’t popped yet. His family was dead. His inheritance, such as it was, was burned. The ancestral tablets and graves were burned. The line to the past was cut and the future that was hanging from it fell with it.

He tried to cling to the doctrines of the Dusties. That nothing was ever truly lost, just changed into a different form or energy. That the information of all those lives and souls were preserved on the other side of the skin of the universe.

Then he thought about Danae, about going home. He caught his breath again, and went to make sure everything was packed for the long haul.