Morning came with a roaring Polyclitus. According to his careful calculation, at their present speed, the caravan would die in the mountains. And he, for one, had already picked out who the emergency food supply would be. The caravan would move, or he would know the reason why!

The camp cleared in record time, and the caravan set out with a will. The pace was just a bit faster, the breaks a touch shorter, but it added up. Twenty exhausting miles later, they collapsed into camp for the night. Mazelton dragged his body around the wagons, offering purification. There were a few takers. A few people had come down with the runs, and their families were suddenly amenable to letting him do his job. His advice regarding washing hands was duly nodded at, agreed with, and discarded.

The caravan greeted the morning with groans of misery, as Polyclitus loudly announced that since yesterday was so easy for everyone, today would be downright relaxing. Why, they would go one mile less!

The scenery was varied at least. There were pine trees, other pine trees, what looked like pine but might be a fir tree, a small river or lake or pond, then more pine. Occasionally a tree would look like a target, and a fusillade of sling stones and bullets would rocket out to meet it. Mazelton sneered at their crude amusements, until that also got boring and he took a few pot shots with his sling. His aim wasn’t any better than he remembered it being, but it was pretty fun cracking off shots as he walked.

Around lunchtime Polyclitus found Mazelton.

“How are you stocked for sponges?”

“We sold almost none so far, so I still have most of the stock. Why?”

“Because we are camping outside a decent little prospecting ground tonight. Might make some sales.”

“Prospecting at night? That’s just looking to die, isn’t it?”

Polyclitus grinned.

“Not as such. We travel at a rate of four to five hours walk a day. Even with a decent load, it won’t be hard for people to catch up with us. Now, it might take them a couple of days, all told, but the road is easy to follow and while the rewards aren’t likely to be huge, neither is the risk.”

“I’ll set them out with some light cores.” Mazelton grinned. “Always helps if you might be working underground.”

“Good thinking.” Polyclitus slapped him on the shoulder and strode off towards his wagon.

That evening, the drum sounded for a gathering. Polyclitus had built up a big fire (still creepy to Mazelton) and started his spiel.

“Now, I know most of you are pretty near broke. Costs a lot, outfitting a wagon and emigrating. I know it. Oh, do I know it! BUT. There are some opportunities along the trail to make a little money. Not big money, I won’t lie to you. But some money, all at the cost of a bit of time and sweat.”

Polyclitus had the crowd’s attention.

“I’m talking about prospecting. While this trail is well established, the landscape shifts, rivers shift- things that were buried come to light. Specifically, the area we are going to pass through tomorrow morning. Two years ago, it was under a lake! But the lake broke through the earth and drained into another lake a bit south of here. Instead of two small lakes, we have one bigger lake two hundred meters south of where it was before. And as the silt washed away, foundations appeared.”

This got a few murmurs.

“Yep. Lakebottom recovery. Good news is that anything that survives is going to be pretty valuable. Bad news is that not much is likely to have survived. Combined with what is likely to be pretty mild heat, and you have about the most low risk prospecting site you could ever wish for. Someone’s old hunting weapon, stored in a safe? A stack of ancient literature or manuals or music? Tools are heavy to shift but if they work, for the right buyer they are worth a fortune. Not to mention sealed bottles of old liquor.”

That got a laugh.

“Now, we can’t stop the caravan. You all know why. But as the Sky Runners can tell you, folks can walk a lot farther and faster than a caravan can roll. Spend a day prospecting, and you will be back with the wagon in less than three days all told. Maybe even two, with a light pack and quick feet. So for anybody interested in picking up a bit of extra income, I would pack food, water, and shelter for three days, first aid equipment, rope, breaking bars, spades, light cores and most importantly of all, heat sponges. Because while the heat should be low, who wants to bet on “should?” Besides, it’s a nice little bit of insurance that you will earn something out of the trip.”

Mazelton sold less than he hoped he would. It seems that people were a bit more hard nosed, or hard up, than he had imagined. Morning came, and a score of hard eyed men split off the caravan. The ruins of the town were quite small, two miles on the square, or maybe just one. It was hard to tell, the fieldstone basements pockmarking the ground as scrabbly brush fought its way up through the wild grasses and herbs. It would be a year or two before trees really started muscling their way in, but the succession of the forest could not be denied.

It wasn’t really haunting, at least for an Old Radler boy. Little buildings, homes? Clustered together next to a lake, alongside the only road for who knows how many kilometers in any direction. Did they have a caravansary? They must have done, but if he was going to pick one place guaranteed to not have any valuables, it would be the caravansary. Perhaps there was a library? Or a bank? Lots of civilizations permitted usury. Who knows about this one.

Off in a stand of trees, away from the old lake bed, Mazelton spotted a little bed of tall lilies, shocking cream orange peeking around the trees. There was another little bed parallel to the first, about seven paces due west. Mazelton grinned and nudged Duane.

“Look over there. See the lilies? There was a home there. Almost every epoch, someone figures out that those lilies are easy to grow and perennial. I guarantee someone in this wagon train has ‘em, or their descendants.”

Duane looked mildly interested, then gently confronted him with an eyebrow.

“Spend all day digging up some timberfolk’s shack? I’ll pass. Just thought it was interesting.”

Duane nodded companionably, and they rolled on. Camp that night was by a nice little falls, as a small but deep stream spread a bit and let itself be heard. Mazelton dreamed of Danae, scolding her for fishing in the Roaring River. He dreamed Danae splashing him and telling him to get over himself. Then they ate some fruit and bickered as friends, letting the water wash away the world. He kissed her. Danae tasted like apples.

Polyclitus picked up the pace. They had been going too slowly. Too many easy days taken too early in the journey. They crossed the stream, rolled through yet more dull pine forest, then the road curved westerly to parallel what had to be the most twisting river Mazelton had ever seen. It was a titchy little river, filled with rocky shallows and sand bars. You couldn’t get a canoe down most of it, and you wouldn’t care to try either. North, south, north, south. Gone north half a mile? Time to go south again. Then north, again.

Mazelton tried to calculate how far the river traveled compared to the road next to it. He figured it had to be at least sixty miles compared to their twenty. Then he pitied himself for being so bored that he spent half an hour reaching that figure.

The prospectors caught up around lunchtime. Most with packs lighter than when they left. Those who did find things, tended to find things that they either couldn’t shift (like building materials) or things that they couldn’t identify. The latter were brought to Mazelton.

The first was some sort of semi-transparent orange ball the size of a fist, with some fifty flat sides to it. It was shockingly light, not even a quarter of a kilo, and had an odd texture. Somehow it was both sticky and slippery, like it could go either way and hadn’t made up it’s mind. Each facet seemed to have some sort of minute scoring on it, but it was too small to see with the naked eye. Naturally, it had been found under a rock wedged into the corner of a basement, so no context clues.

“My initial thought is that it’s some sort of long term storage crystal, except stamped out of a resin. Kind of looks like what they were using in the Second Swabian, but a lot cruder in design and more sophisticated in material.” Mazelton said. “Let's give it a little test.”

Mazelton got a strong light core and quickly dropped it into a small, mirror lined box. Then, before anyone went blind, he popped the orange crystal over the open mouth of the light box. It quickly turned into a light show, as orange light projected across the entire camp, with squiggly writing coating the ground, wagons, and aurochs. He didn’t recognize the writing, but that didn’t mean much. He picked it up off the light and handed it back to the amazed prospector.

“I have good news and bad. The good news is that it’s a genuine find. I would date it sometime in the early Second Swabian, so this epoch, but based on the writing, I would say it was an import. Probably from across the ocean. The writing looks a bit like the samples of Urtuk I’ve seen, but it isn’t. The bad news is that I can’t identify more than that, or say what the writing is about. Also, you clearly need some kind of special base to read it properly. So, valuable to somebody, somewhere, but you gotta find that somebody. Still, a better than average find.”

He nodded in a friendly way to the conflicted prospector, declined to buy the crystal, and moved on to the next piece. And swore.

“Tell me you have a heat sponge.”

“Yep. And kept it in the hot bag too.”

“Thanks to Mother Moon for that.”

He could feel the heat radiating off the brass widgit like the sun at noon. His own ability to soak heat was going to get a challenge today, and his heat sponges a nice bit of charge.

“Material appears to be bronze, socket in the bottom where something was supposed to fit in, hollow body, hinged lid on top, some sort of pour spout and handle. Shape is essentially that of a covered pitcher. Early Second Swabian, likely. Was it found near any other artifacts?”

“I’d have brought them if it was.”

Mazelton opened the lid and gently turned the pitcher upside down. Some dirt and silt fell out, much less hot than he would have imagined given the inferno at the bottom of the pitcher. He got it under a light core and examined the interior- smooth walls with very faintly ridged metal on the floor. He tapped his lip in contemplation.

“So, this is probably a broken two part device, likely for heating water. I suspect that the socket on the bottom was meant to fit a core, or some sort of base plate holding the core. The metal would absorb the heat, heat up itself, but keep the poison out. Just let the water get hot. Looks like at some point the core broke and the whole thing just got absolutely soaked in heat. Sorry. Might have some value to a collector, but right now, best I can suggest is using it to charge heat sponges. You can’t even use it for scrap.”

“Oh come on! You can fix it can’t you?”

“I can get the heat out faster than it would come out otherwise, but that’s it. And honestly, it’s not worth it. Once I had it safe to handle, I would need to invent some kind of base plate heater for it. And we already have that- heat stones will boil a kettle just fine. So why build some specialized core device to boil water faster?” Mazelton shrugged.

“There really isn’t anything you can do?” The prospector pleaded.

“I can sell you some more heat sponges. You can earn as the wagon rolls.”

The prospector bought them, swearing under his breath.

By the time the wagons had reached their evening campsite and settled in for bed, all the artifacts had been appraised. Mostly they fell in the “junk” category, with some scrap value. Not a complete loss, but no big winners either. The orange crystal was the only halfway decent find, and unless it turned out to be some earth shattering technological record, it was only halfway decent. Mazelton understood why Polyclitus didn’t go for the hard sell when he announced the prospecting opportunity. How much could they really expect to find in a Second Swabian village in the middle of nowhere?

The next day brought an exciting change- some deciduous trees! Yes, peaking out around the firs and pine were flat leafed beauties. Struggling, still skinny, but growing in all the same. It brought a tear to your eye, it really did. As the shockingly bright blue sky highlighted the tender green leaves, Mazelton could feel the fundamental goodness of the world.

It took less than two weeks to knock the optimism right back out of Mazelton.

It was thirteen days from the drowned village to Fort Muddy Waters. Thirteen days of swamp. The stink of decay was overwhelming, compounded and refined by unwashed humanity and animals. Animals and humans who were starting to get a bit too casual about where they pooped.

Mazelton was making his usual lunchtime rounds when a woman started to… the only word that seemed to fit was void herself. It wasn’t merely explosive diarrhea or vomiting, it was like her body was trying to completely empty itself of all fluids. The look of horror and helplessness on her face, on the face of her family, seared him. He started to run over, and then stopped. How, exactly, was he going to help? The sickness had settled in her already. Nothing for him to do. And her family was looking at him hard.

The wagons had to roll. At the end of lunch, her family carried her into the back of their wagon, laying her on top of what they figured was most easily cleaned, trying to keep her off the food and away from the water. Not easy, as some eighty percent of each wagon was food. She was young, fit, and the wagon train had been traveling less than a month. She had a chance to pull through.

Mazelton found them that evening, almost as soon as the wagons stopped and they got the bedding out of the back of the wagon. The woman was visibly thinner, her skin pallid and almost slimy with sweat. The bedding was soaked with horrible fluids, starting to run clear as everything that had been in her had blown out. The family was dosing her with camphor and sugar water, hoping that it would help.

“Polisher. Please, let me purify… everything. I will purify everything. I can’t cure her, but I can keep you a bit safer. Please, it’s free.”

Her father snatched up a burning branch from the fire and pointed it at Mazelton.

“You stay the hell away from us!”

Her brothers pulled their belt knives out and stood next to their father, making a wall between Mazelton and their sister. Her mother stood on the box of the wagon, sling loaded and in hand.

“You fucking vulture. You goddamn ghast! Let me guess. You are going to purify everything, oh yes, and then when she dies, you will claim her core! That’s what you people do, isn’t it. Why waste it? Hell, why wait? Just kill her now and you can get a nice dinner along with your filthy money!”

“One more step. You take one more step, mister, and we will see what price we can get for your core!”

“I just want to help! It’s free. Your family will owe me nothing!”

“Oh I think we owe you plenty already. I can’t wait to pay back every bit of it!”

Humble Bissette rushed in, as much as she could rush, and took Mazelton by the shoulder.

“That’s enough. They don’t want you here, so you don’t have to be here.”

Loranne got between the family and Mazelton, making him look at her.

“C’mon. Why don’t you come with me? We can take a little walk and then maybe have some dinner?”

Loranne smiled and gently took his hand.

“C’mon. This way.”

Mazelton gave up and went. The family said something as he left, but he wasn’t able to listen. All he could hear was roaring, like the sea and a burning home.

That evening’s rounds took a different tack.

“Polisher. Food and drink purification?”

“No. I told you no, it’s still no, it’s never going to not be no!”

Mazelton very deliberately looked over to the cholera patient weakly vomiting by the side of her wagon, firelight carving the fear and worry of her family into terrible masks.

“Ok.” And he walked off.

A couple of people actually called him back after that. He didn’t say anything, just quietly ran his cores over the food stores that were open, and submerged them in the water barrels. He took his time, did it right, and left with a minimally polite nod.

She took two days to die. The family burned her bedding with her, the barely dry wood smoking terribly and burning slowly. The smell was beyond awful. The rest of the family was already breaking out in a cold sweat. Their wagon had fallen out of the caravan a day later. They were never seen again.