At the midday rest, Polyclitus called over the now mostly recovered Mazelton and handed him a small ledger. Each wagon was to be recorded, the date it’s barrels were purified, and any other services rendered. If they bought any cores or charging, it was to be recorded, and the fees paid directly to the Nimu Caravan Company in the form of the large teamster assigned to be his helper. On the one hand, Mazelton was peeved that he wasn’t trusted to handle the money. On the other hand, it was pretty damn convenient having someone carry a few dozen heat sponges as they moved around the campsite.

Their midday camp was at the intersection of two lakes and a pond, with a wide dry patch of land between them. The caravan clumped around each body of water, not quite evenly, making today’s visits reasonably fast. Mazelton wouldn’t be able to purify and charge everything today, of course- this was going to be a new lunch and evening activity for him. So off he trudged, thick necked teamster in tow.

Should go fast, Mazelton thought.

“Hello!” Mazelton waved and made a small bow to the driver of his very first wagon. “I’m the Polisher for the Caravan. Would you like your food and water purified? We also have cores and heat sponges for sale, if you need any.”

“I don’t want to buy anything.”

“Alright. The purification?”

“I said I don’t want to buy anything!”

“It’s free. Well, it’s included in what you already paid Nimu.”

“Yeah right. Scram!”

Mazelton shrugged, and scrammed. He would look forward to the driver’s future dysentery. On to the next wagon. And the next.

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“How many people do you have to kill before you can do magic?”

“Looking for company?”

“You stay away from her!”

“You stay away from him!”

“Where were you, huh? Where were you, is what I want to know. Daff dying like that, I bet a polisher could have cured her. I’d be living with her back home right now if you had been there!”

Mazelton called the exercise a few minutes before lunch was up. On the way back to his wagon, he started interrogating his minder.

“What exactly is going on here?”

“Huh?”

“I was, if not an honored guest, at least a valuable one, in Sky’s Echo. People keep telling me that there are nowhere near enough polishers around here. So why do most of these people act like I’m going to eat them?”

“Because you might?”

Mazelton stopped dead.

“What?”

“Well, not all of them really think that. But yeah. Most folk around here haven’t met a polisher, they just know that they are rich and can do magic.”

Mazelton gave the teamster a not particularly friendly look.

“Hey, it’s what they think. And, c'mon. If you weren’t so set on emigrating, you would be sitting pretty in any city you chose. Also, how is what you do different from magic?”

“Magic doesn't have a full blown industrial base!”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And the eating people thing?”

“There are, um. Rumors. About how polishers are made. I’m not asking, and I’m not saying they are right, but. At least as long as I can remember, that was the rumor.”

“Oh yes, the Hag stalks the street looking for bad children who get snatched up and eaten so the next generation of polishers can be born.”

“More or less.”

The teamster looked at him side eyed.

“I don’t even eat fish.”

“Right, right.”

“My Mother ruined a person by announcing that they ate eggs.”

“What’s wrong with eating eggs?”

“Quite a lot, according to my family.”

“So… not a cult of murderous cannibals who eat bad children to grow in power, cursing all those who anger them and reveling in their misery?”

Mazelton glared at the teamster.

“Whoops, got to get to my wagon. I’ll let Polyclitus know how it went!”

It had been a long time since he had sacrificed to the Ælfflæd. Mazelton corrected that before bed, his blood pooling in a little hole in the ground. They had turned west again after lunch, running parallel to a long lake for most of the afternoon. As the blood dripped from his finger, he half imagined a little wagon in the droplet. Some people took the purification, and were glad of it. Nobody wanted to buy anything. A few offered to sell him some things.

He didn’t want anything they were offering. He just let them all flow down into the hole.

Morning came, and another bowl of porridge with it.

“Hey, Boss- had a question for you.”

Polyclitus looked over.

“I am asking purely for my own information here, ok? Not trying to say anything, just looking to understand.”

“Well now I’m worried. What is it?”

“Well, you showed everyone the route on the map, and it’s a lot of going mostly west and a bit north, until we cross the mountains at which point we head almost due south until we hit the Disputed Territory. I just was wondering… why the detour?”

Polyclitus looked relieved.

“Worried me for nothin. Three simple, related, and unchangeable reasons- Water, mountains and politics. Water- if we go much south of this route, we go through tons of tiny lakes and rivers, slowing us down massively, not even counting the number of people who will drown. Then when we hit the planes, there is not enough water so people and auroch will die. They will get a bit thirsty on our route, but it should be ok.

Polyclitus held up a second finger.

“Mountains- The Grand Redoubts are no joke, and they run the length of this continent and through the southern continent too. You have never seen ANYTHING like this. They are big in ways you can’t even conceive. So the fact that there is a gap in ‘em with a nice river valley that runs most of the way to the sea? Well, that’s a blessing humans have been taking advantage of for endless epoch. You could probably find a shorter route on foot, but you definitely won’t get a wagon train through.”

He held up a third finger.

“Politics- The Laginalopo hold a big chunk of the land around there, and just how big, and which chunk, varies a lot on their mood. Now, they aren’t bad folk to deal with, but they tend to view caravans as rolling gift boxes.”

“Banditry?”

“Not the way you are thinking. More like, every tribe you meet, or band if you are really unlucky, wants you to stop and trade. And if you don’t want to stop and trade, or you don’t want anything they are looking to trade, then it turns out that you need to pay a toll to cross their lands.”

“Oh, more stationary bandits.”

“They are migratory, but yes.”

Polyclitus scratched his head.

“They are honestly not bad to deal with. They can be life savers, in fact. It’s just that if you run into six or seven tribes in one trip, you could lose a tenth of the value of the caravan in “trades” and “fees.” Not something we can absorb. Generally we only go out that way when we are making a delivery directly to one of the tribes.”

“Can’t cut a deal with them like you did at the bridge?”

“They aren’t organized that way. Basically they are a whole bunch of independent tribes that band together against outsiders and sort out things like hunting and grazing grounds internally. Occasionally they will come together for big projects like the Grand Renaissance, but that’s beyond rare.”

Mazelton nodded and stared at his porridge for a minute.

“You know that people aren’t buying or using my services, right?”

“They bought the insect barriers.” Polyclitus grinned mirthlessly. “Give them time to know you. Just seeing you moving around every day will calm them down.”

Mazelton nodded.

“Soon enough we will have the first people dead of the flux. That will motivate them too.”

Mazelton had no reply for that either.

The day had started cool and damp, clouded up some more, and by the time they reached their lunchtime stop, it had settled into a steady drizzle. The already wet ground was a muddy, miserable mess and the fine rain seemed to seep through anything not completely waterproof. Anything completely waterproof also trapped the sweat, which made people too hot, and then, when the jackets were opened for ventilation, too cold. The road churned into mud, then deeper mud, then deeper mud and auroch dung. Tempers shortened as the miles lengthened.

Someone had fallen off their wagon and the wheels snapped their leg. One of their family grabbed the Auroch and kept them moving (not that they had batted an eye), another put them across their shoulders and hauled the weeping driver into their wagon. When they reached the little lake that was their lunchtime campground, they brought the person out under a tent so they could try and set the bone. Nobody in the caravan was a doctor, but one of the Leonida vets had some medical training and was willing to help splint the leg. Two heart wrenching shrieks later, the bones were as lined up as they were going to get, and splinted into place.

It was a nice little lake, Mazelton thought. Had some ducks on it, paddling in and out of the reedy edges and fishing merrily. They looked over at the screams, but otherwise were happy to ignore the caravan. Wild things, with brilliant green heads and shockingly bright red eyes and a tan belly. Even on a gray day, as the light seemed to smudge all the colors together into a bland blur, the shocking iridescence of their feathers stood out. They were, Mazelton concluded, the handsomest ducks he had ever seen.

The thought had him chuckling as he was waived away from one wagon after another. Well, a couple of people took the offer. But mostly, he had plenty of time to think about ducks.

The drizzle didn’t let up, and it was a very tired, grumpy caravan well before sunset. They came up over a good sized ridge and started rolling down the far side when Polyclitus called a halt. He conferred with one of the caravanners and sent them off ahead. About half an hour later, she came back shaking her head and waving her hands. Polyclitus nodded, started the caravan up again, and before they had even cleared the ridge, hauled them into a little wooded campground.

“What do you think that’s about?” Mazelton asked Duane.

Duane, after a period of deep contemplation, shrugged.

“River up ahead. It’s connected to some big lakes so even though it’s usually not a problem to ford, with the rain, it’s bad. Flooded real, real bad. Hopefully the rain stops soon and the water starts to drop, but if it don’t, we are in for a nasty crossing. Best we do that first thing in the morning, when everyone is fresh.” Polyclitus explained over beans and flatbread.

Mazelton nodded. He sprinkled a tiny pinch of salt and sumac over his beans. It helped. He was kicking himself for not buying oil. Sure it was expensive and could go rancid, but the extra fat really added a lot. It was just so damned expensive! He said as much to Polyclitus, who just chuckled.

“You could always make vinegar. Lean in the opposite direction.”

“Really? How?”

“Make alcohol and leave it out in the air for a while, then it turns into vinegar. When it gets as acidic as you like, simmer it for ten minutes, then bottle it.”

“That first step is a bit steep.”

“Nah, just sugar, water and fruit juice in a jar. Or just chuck the whole fruit in. Tie a bit of cloth over the top to keep the bugs out. Takes a few weeks, but you get something boozy.”

Mazelton just shook his head. At this point he would rather just buy oil from someone.

“I better go do my rounds.”

“Take Nala, she hasn’t done the rounds yet.”

Mazelton made his way over to the Leonida wagons. He had been half planning to leave them until the end, for no particularly good reason, but he figured that if they would help fix a leg they couldn’t be all bad. Their wagons were parked neatly in a not-quite circle, a little campground within a campground.

“Polisher! Anyone want their water purified or cores charged?” Mazelton said loudly.

“That’s close enough, Polisher.”

A young man stood up from one of the nearest fires. He looked fit enough, but too young to be a veteran.

“Alright. Anybody want their water purified, food purified, cores charged or want to buy cores or sponges?”

“No.”

The young man spoke firmly, arms crossed. Nobody spoke up to contradict him. Mazelton just nodded.

“Anybody wants things purified, you know where to find me.” He said, in a carrying voice. And then left. Fuck ‘em. Let’s see how they do with the flux.

It was a damp night. Mazelton’s tent was as snug as always, but this night, “snug” had turned into “cloying.” It turned into a sort of very annoying game- open the tent flap too much, and it was cold. Too little, and it was stifling. It was impossible to keep it “just so,” as it was always one or the other. He tried to read. He tried to read with his shirt off. He tried to read stark naked, but with the tent flap mostly closed for “modesty.” Not that he gave a damn, but it apparently bothered other people. Eventually the answer was “Go to bed naked, tent flap closed, blanket only part way on. He woke up chilly, sticky and pissed.

Naturally the river was running full flood. The ridge they were on dropped into a valley some two or three miles wide, with what would normally be a small river connecting a large lake at the valley’s western end to a smaller lake at the eastern end. The spring rains had filled the lakes, soaked the soil around the river, and because of the previous day’s rain, made the river flood to twice it’s usual size. It was a muddy mess before they even reached the river. Some overloaded wagons struggled to pull through the mud at all- the Humble’s wagon left wheel ruts two hands deep.

Polyclitus stopped the caravan some forty smoots from the river. Two of the teamsters were dispatched with long poles to check the ground and the depth of the river. The answer came back- mud for at least half a mile on either side of the river, and the river ran at least axle high on many of the wagons. The good news was that the river itself was only two wagon lengths long. The bad news… It was running pretty fast. Manageable, but fast.

The caravan rolled to the river and attempted to cross one at a time. It was slow going. Some caravans got stuck in the mud. Others, ones who were both overloaded and too lazy to make preparations, got a bit flooded when the water splashed up higher than they expected. The very first wagon had the unpleasant job of sweeping for dangers the hard way, but they still came out ahead of the latter wagons, trying to cross a churned up ford. Mazelton watched the crossing until Duane had driven them out of sight. They only made fourteen miles that day. When the caravan camped that night, someone was missing.

A boy of fifteen, walking alongside his family’s wagon lost his footing and was swept away by the river. The river emptied into a nearby lake, but nobody found him. It was the next wagon crossing the ford that found the body, ground into the muddy ford bottom by the wheel of his own wagon. Humble Bissette was busy again that night.

Mazelton didn’t know quite how to feel. It was awful, of course it was awful! But he didn’t know the kid. Didn’t know the family. What was he supposed to do? He joined in the funeral, gave a mighty cheer, and had an extra large portion for dinner. Then that was that. He lay in his cot, too confused to read.

He fantasized about Danae. Would she be torn up? Unlikely, in his opinion. Her letters were pragmatic. He imagined her shaking her head in regret, adding an extra sprinkle of salt to her lentils and then reminding him not to make the same mistake. Then she would lean in, her forehead resting on his, their noses gently brushing.

“I don’t want to lose you. You mind yourself.” Danae said.

“I don’t want to lose you. I'll watch my step.” Mazelton promised.

“Silly.” Danae snorted, then took him by the hand and led him to their little tent. The cot was tiny, barely big enough for one, but they made it work for two. Sometimes, when they just wanted to cuddle, they would spread their sleeping pads on the ground and pile on top with all their blankets, making a grand nest in their tent. Just the two of them, warm and safe, together.