The Vast Green Isle Caravan roused itself a bit before dawn, aching and groaning as a night on hard ground only does so much to rest tired limbs. Still, it was a good campground, with latrines dug well away from the river and soil that drained well. Or put another way, it wasn't too wet and muddy when they went to lay down their bedrolls.

Mazelton could practically hear she of the rattling rings pointing and saying “See? You need the water barrier AND a pad AND a quilt. And good clothes, and a good tent.”

In a burst of immense smugness, Mazelton looked at his camp set up. Excellent quality, well waterproofed one man tent, with lightweight but immensely strong engineered bamboo polls. Loads of tie spots, top notch cordage, and even a little detachable vestibule for when the weather turned nasty. The sides were extra long, so you could tuck them underneath and weigh them down if the weather went from nasty to homicidal.

The crowning glory of his tent was unquestionably the camp bed. A super-lightweight cot made of some remnant metal and a fabric that felt sort of like what silk was supposed to feel like, but probably wasn't. It folded up into almost nothing- a wide, thin rectangle that weighed less than a melon. When the cot was folded up, there was enough room in the tent for him to set up a little folding work bench and a stool, so he could polish with a bit of quiet and privacy.

Was his tent warm and well lit? Cue nefarious chuckles. Oh yes, the polisher’s tent was very cozy. He had been well drilled on how to set up his tent by the Coven, and once he saw the interior all set up, he became inordinately fond of it. Something about having a little space that was entirely his, and just how he wanted it.

Breakfast was porridge. Mazelton had expected that, so he discreetly added a bit of salt and sumac to his bowl before tucking in. The Nimu Caravan Company had its own little cluster of tents and wagons in the camp ground, as did the other little groups. The people heading for New Scandi stuck together, the people heading to Shale Snake Ridge stuck together, and so on. One notable group had their tents very sharply lined up, evenly spaced and… for lack of a better word, tidy. They were a sort of drab, green gray color, with a big splotch of black painted on the side.

Mazelton nodded over towards them.

“Any idea who that bunch is?”

Polyclitus, who apparently liked his porridge with a healthy dash of hot sauce, nodded.

“Retired soldiers from the Leonida Collective. The Collective rents out it’s army, and this lot just finished a campaign around the mouth of the Mud Dragon River. They do a twenty year hitch, then get a pension and benefits. The benefits include a plot of quality farmland. Guess where?”

“The “Disputed Territory.””

“I think they prefer the term “Green Mountain County.”” Polyclitus’ smile lacked any trace of warmth.

“I’m sure they do.”

“They paid to be here, same as everyone else, so you won’t cause them trouble. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Good. Because they know the score too, and even if you do cause trouble, likely enough they will be the ones to finish it. They got their families with them, so you can be certain that they will fight like hell.”

“I… wasn’t going to start a fight with people I don’t know over land I haven’t seen. I’m not a pacifist but I’m not-” The words “Not a murderer” slammed up against the back of his teeth. “Not going to kick off a war. Not part of the program anyway- the Dusties want peaceful coexistence, whoever holds the territory. It was never going to be just us.”

“Good. You keep that firmly in mind. Now pack up, we leave in half an hour.”

Mazelton had learned how to set up and take down his tent, but he wasn’t particularly fast at it. It was a close run thing, but he got it squared away before the drums called the march. They crossed the river without too much drama, nobody fell in, and only a few aurochs balked. A very good start, Mazelton felt, and Duane’s silence seemed to radiate approval.

Mazelton gave a quick little extra charge to the insect barrier core around Duane. There was plenty of heat left in it, but he didn’t want the man to be bothered by even a buzz.

The second day went much as the first- most folk plodding alongside their wagons, some chattering, most pretty quiet. Plenty of weapons, Mazelton noticed. Many with slings, a rare few with crossbows, and a remarkable number of slug throwers. An expensive, and dangerous, luxury, even if you could find the ingredients for black powder on the trail.

Mazelton’s eyes narrowed at the sight of all the slug throwers. There were only so many ways one could shove a lump of metal down a tube at speed. An experienced grave robber… that is, an experienced polisher! Could use them as a sort of measuring stick for technological development. For example, the barrels. Steel was expensive. You could make them from ironwood, or even bronze, but they would be comically heavy and impractical. Next was the issues of uniformity and quality control. Casting a barrel was a serious bit of foundry work, turning one out of a block of steel required excellent tools and machines. They could even be hammer forged, which required both excellent steel and significant smithing skills. Were they rifled? Were the slugs lead balls or something else? Mmm.

It was interesting that while a lot of the Dusties had slug throwers, all of the Leonida Collective settlers did. Children included, apparently, as Mazelton saw a child no older than ten waving around a small weapon before being scolded by their mother. With a jolt, Mazelton remembered that the Holy Beacons used in the Grand Renaissance were made by the Leonida Collective. And those weren’t simple to make at all. You needed the right remnant tech, the right polishing legacies, and a very big system to support the specialized manufacturing.

“Just how far have you developed?” Mazelton muttered. Slug throwers were toys in Old Radler. The Guarda used crossbows and the serious war weapons were all heat based. After the First Swabian Empire rolled through, Old Radler got decidedly more vicious in it’s defenses. No wonder that every subsequent conquest was some sort of subversion from within.

Mazelton tried to shake off the thoughts he felt spiraling up in his mind. He looked around the road as they marched. There was an astonishing collection of little lakes and ponds everywhere. Dense trees, then a belt of farms, then dense trees with a little pond peaking out at the road, and so on. And where there is standing water, there are flies.

Vast swarms of black flies would come boiling out of the ponds and swoop down on the convoy. The Aurochs had to rely on their tough skin and long tails to fight back. The humans could only bundle up, trying to limit the exposed skin as much as possible. It was easy to spot where the insect barrier cores were- their owners were grinning like mad as the little bastards formed a trail of corpses behind them.

Mazelton grinned. Looks like business would be booming when they stopped for lunch. Showing both his professionalism as a caravan master, and the innate viciousness of a transcontinental merchant, Polyclitus halted the caravan next to a large pond some twenty meters off the road. Lots of water for the aurochs. Lots of water for the flies.

Before most of the wagons had even pulled in, Mazelton had his wares on display on a folding table. He hoisted the Black Trifolium flag, and waited for the deluge. And did the deluge come!

“I need six barrier cores!”

“Two barrier cores!”

“Ten here!”

Polyclitus’ whistle had the auroch tossing their heads and stamping their feet. Mazelton wondered briefly if his eardrum had ruptured.

“Line up single file! We have lots of stock, so don’t you worry about that. Prices are as posted, and the “Polisher special” on a barrier core and a heat sponge combo is available. We are going to be here for one hour! So keep the line moving!”

Good projection there, Mazelton thought. He had never been one for acting or singing, but he could tell when someone was breathing with their belly instead of their lungs. Polyclitus clearly had the knack.

It was the best single sales day Mazelton had ever seen. Mostly people traded raw cores for the polished ones, two or three to one, depending on the weight. Those with foresight, or a bit of spare money, bought the “special,” knowing that buying the core was one thing, and keeping it charged was another.

Mazelton had a horrible premonition- this was going to be his life, now. Heat stones, insect barriers, purifiers for food, water and wounds, heat sponges as a side line and that was going to be it. No more diadems. No more ringing cores. The last thought stabbed from below, up and into his heart. The ringing core was one of the few carvings he could do that he was really proud of. Not an easy pattern to carve at all, and to make it only sound when you wanted it to was harder still. He couldn’t play a song on it, but he could use it to accent his dances.

Maybe Danae would use it if he made it for her? He hoped so.

Lunch was a bowl of lentils and onion. He tried the hot sauce. Not bad, but mostly it just made it taste like hot sauce. He sighed, looking up at the peaks of blue spring shining through the gray clouds. Bleak, but grounds for optimism. One day at a time. Ten minutes at a time. All the way to Danae, and peace.

The afternoon passed slowly, the caravan snaking its way north. Around late afternoon the road met the river and bent west. The caravan bent with it, rolling parallel to the river for another few miles. A wide and steady river, running high with the spring rains. Mazelton saw six men in a canoe streaking down the river with what seemed like blinding speed. They had bundles full of something, but whatever it was, they clearly weren’t too comfortable being out in the open with it.

“Voyageurs.” Duane spat with surprising venom.

“Eh?” The word sounded unspeakably foreign to Mazelton.

Duane just shook his head, checked his sling, and kept half an eye on the speedy canoe.

They were about an hour from sunset when they arrived at the river crossing. Mazelton was quite interested- this was the first of the “stationary bandits” he had encountered. There were little islands of rock and rubble sticking out of the river in a loose chain. Some enterprising soul had run a sturdy little bridge over them, and, no doubt purely to recoup their losses, had been forced to impose a toll on anyone seeking to use it. And in case anyone felt like ignoring the right thing to do, they, and a half dozen of their friends, were in bunkers with slug throwers. And just, just, in case, there were huge cables connecting the support pillars on the bridge to a capstan inside the bunker.

The Nimu flag was recognized. A guard tossed his opposite number a small bag full of cores, and the caravan was waved across. Bit anticlimactic, but that was probably for the best. There was a good sized falls just the other side of the bridge. A tumble here and they might be picking pieces of your wagon out of the harbor in Sky’s Echo. Not that it would be your concern, by that point.

Mazelton was still waiting his turn to cross when one of the bridge keepers came running over. Turns out that they had some urgent needs, and would he like to do a bit of business? One heat stone, six insect barriers and one food purifier later, Mazelton rejoined his wagon. His mood was thoughtful. The inside of the bunker was also clearly a bunkhouse for the bridge keepers. Very little light, and what light there was, was rushlights. Small, cramped, smelly. He would have thought the income from the bridge would keep the bandits in… if not high style at least comparative comfort. Did they pass on most of their earnings to someone else?

Out of an abundance of caution, Polyclitus kept the caravan rolling for another couple of miles past the bridge. They continued to parallel the river, and in one small bend was a natural campground. Low brush, no trees, plenty of room for tents and access to the river for water.

The tents were set with minimal fuss. The auroch, chev, and other animals were watered. Latrines were dug and speedily made use of. It was all quite orderly. Mazelton queued with the other Nimu Caravan employees at the chuckwagon. It wasn’t really the same as having your meals brought to you at the table, but he supposed the spirit was sort of similar. You turned up with your bowl, got food, ate your food. Having to clean your own bowl and utensils was definitely different. And the food quality left much to be desired. Portions were good though.

The evening was taken up with polishing. His stock had been sharply depleted. The once boring carvings for insect barriers and food purifiers had, by dint of long, long, long repetition, had become a sort of active meditation. They certainly required his focus, but he could now let his thoughts drift and settle along the curves as he carved. Thoughts popped in and out, watched dispassionately as they passed. Tomorrow would be a long day, the teamsters said, though an easy one as these things went. Guess they would see. Mazelton finished the core he was working on, and set it to one side. He went out of his tent and looked up. The river of stars was very long tonight.

Mazelton didn’t manage to sleep through the night. One of the settlers managed to trip on a guy line and fell into the side of the tent, collapsing it on themselves and the owner of the tent. The tent owner, wanting to see what they were doing that night, had a rushlight lit. It really shouldn’t have been a problem, it really shouldn’t have, but the tent was waterproofed with some sort of material that made it catch fire fast, and was resistant to being put out with water. The whole pile of cloth and people made thick plumes of black, noxious smoke, boiling out and covering the whole camp. The two men tangled up in the tent likely smothered to death before the heat could kill them, Mazelton heard people say. A mercy, according to some. Mazelton doubted that the two widows and six fatherless children would agree.

No, Mazelton didn’t sleep for a long while after that. Humble Bissette wanted to delay the convoy, do a proper funeral for the men, but Polyclitus wasn’t having it. The caravan had to move. Had to. Someone died mid way, you buried them in a shallow grave by the side of the road, or under the road, and then rushed to rejoin the caravan that had kept on moving. That was how it was, because if it wasn’t, then the seasons would turn and catch them out of place and then everyone would die.

Humble Bissette didn’t like it. Nobody liked it. But it was done anyway. The bodies were buried undivided in as much loam and leaf litter as they could find in the middle of the night, so that at the very least they would decompose reasonably quickly. A short sermon was read, a cheer was raised, and then it was time to pack up because the sky was already starting to lighten up, and nobody felt like hanging around.

Duane’s silence was a mercy. He didn’t mind Mazelton curling up on top of the boxes in the wagon, a blanket pulled firmly around his head and shoulders. Didn’t ask him if he knew the deceased, or if he needed anything, just left him alone. Duane was good people, that way.

The wagon train trekked almost due west another few miles, then at an apparently arbitrary intersection in the road, turned almost ninety degrees due north and almost immediately crossed a ford in a river. The sharpness of it was startling- just what was ahead that required such a big diversion?

Mazelton knew that nothing was going to happen if he kept hiding under his blanket, and he was ok with that. Nothing sounded great. But he egged himself on with the thought that he had a job to do, and he could smell the smoke under the blanket anyway, so he might as well get out and do. Maybe he could talk to Polyclitus about lowering the cost of light cores? They did take time to make and a fair bit of heat to keep charged, but for once he was fine with a lower margin.

“Duane, why the sharp turn? Road looks good up ahead.” Mazelton asked.

Duane frowned, mentally reviewing the enormity of the land ahead, it’s dips and rises, the hazards to both humans and animals and the even greater enormity of communicating that information to someone with little to no context for the experience. He took a deep breath, flicked a finger west and then slowly, sincerely shook his head. Job done, he focused back on the road.

“Thanks Duane.” Mazelton hopped off. He jogged up to another Nimu teamster and got a bit more detailed of an answer.

“It’s all standing water out that way. Thousands of lakes of all different sizes and shapes, and where there isn’t lake, the trees are dense. Little whippy bastards you can’t drive over, backed up by ones about as thick as your leg making them damn hard to clear. Now, there are roads through there, and you can get a wagon through there, but right now, it’s mostly mud. Wagons will get stuck, wheels and axels will break, auroch will drown. And that’s before the flux breaks out, which it doubtless will. And then there are the flies. Did I mention the flies? Let me tell you, the flies you have seen so far are nothing. About five years ago, me and…”

It was at this time that Mazelton realized his terrible mistake. He desperately tried to wrest control back from the yammering teamster.

“If it’s so bad, why are there roads?”

“Oh, there are plenty of fishing villages around there. It’s not a rich life, but it ain’t a bad one, for the right kind of person. And in the right season, it can save you a week or more on your trip, depending on where you want to go. Plus…” And now the teamster apparently felt like he had talked too much, because he suddenly shut up mid sentence.

“Plus.”

“It’s not nice to talk about but… well. Not all trade happens by caravan, you know? And there are some goods that, ok, maybe it’s not strictly speaking OK for people to own, but they get desperate out in the deep woods in the winter. And maybe people are willing to trade some things that they pulled out of remnants or caches or got… other ways… for city goods. You need someone that can make the trip, and it sure ain’t going to be the Sky Runners.”

“Okay…”

“So you get the Voyageurs. They move fast as hell, carrying the loads on their backs and portaging their canoes from lake to river to lake. Means they move like stink anywhere from the coast to the plains, and while they don’t generally go much south of Sky’s Echo, you can find them almost as far north as a body can go.”

“So are they, what, small traders? Independent entrepreneurs?”

“Sort of.” The teamster sighed and looked a bit ill.

“You know people living this far north can’t do as much farming, so they hunt and fish. Not… decent, exactly, but it’s that or die. And the animals aren’t using their skin any more, and it would be more wasteful to just… bury it or something. Not when it can keep you warm through winters so cold they make trees explode. And maybe you have more furs than you need, but you would really like a heat stone or some salt or something, so you do a little trade with the guys who come through every so often.”

Mazelton looked sick. The teamster just shook his head.

“That’s not the really sick part. That’s all understandable, to me, at any rate. You do what you got to do to survive. No, the sick part is that those furs sell. There are people out there buying that stuff. The Voyageurs are just middlemen.”

“Who? Who the hell would buy that?”

“All kinds, apparently. Makes you look tough, scares the hell out of people. Plus it really does keep you very warm, or so I hear. So… luxuries for people powerful enough not to care what other people think.”

“And that bit over there is like a special highway just for Voyageurs, huh?”

“This time of year, yeah. Generally they keep away, and we don’t bother with them neither.”

“Mother Moon, this day gets better and better.”

“Shame about those two poor fellows. Not the first time I have seen something like that happen, but it’s really rare. Mostly, when it’s a fire, it’s because someone got too close to a cooking fire and their clothes caught on fire. Rushlights are usually pretty safe.”

“Do people just catch on fire often?” Mazelton asked with a bit of acid to his voice.

“Nah, really rare, like I said. Now, someone falls off their wagon and dies when a wheel runs over them, that’s common. Killed by auroch, common. Flux is probably the number one killer, but river crossings are right up there too.” The teamster warmed up to their topic. “You see all those slug throwers? Guarantee by the end of this trip, someone hurts or kills themselves with one. You can bet what you like, I’ll take the other end of it.”

On that cheery note, Mazelton made his excuses and fled. The teamster looked a little too excited reviewing all the causes of death on the trail.