A camp was made, wagons were circled, stray aurochs collected, hobbled and turned loose again. The few wagons that did without aurochs tried to keep low key. It was not a good night for showing off. The dead were cleaned and set aside for burial. The Leoinida were upset that there was no good way to cremate their dead. The Dusties were upset that there was no useful way to partition their dead, and everyone else was just generally upset. Humble Bissette was constantly in motion, her walking stick stumping from one family to the next, her family taking turns to help her.

Mazelton stayed with the Nimu teamsters. He had learned his lesson about getting too close to the sick and the dead. Nala didn’t make it. Her aurochs panicked when another wagon sideswiped hers and wound up flipping the whole thing over. Mazelton wasn’t an expert, but he reckoned the head wound meant she went fast. She had done the rounds with him a few times, pleasant enough in an unmemorable way. He… really didn’t remember more about her than her weird laugh, which he only heard when she was around the campfire. That was it. A whole person, with a whole life and family and history, returned to the earth. Just another piece of dust. Not lost, just changed, for a while.

Mazelton sprinkled extra salt over his lentils, and a pinch of precious spices. He even sprinkled sugar on his bread. The sheer number of dead demanded it. But he couldn’t laugh. He couldn’t cheer, not yet. He didn’t dare make an offering to the Ælfflæd, he would get torn apart or burned alive. The dead would have to take their chances with the demons. Shame.

That guy, the first guy who told him to scram when he started offering his services? Completely fine. Mazelton saw him hugging his family, looking around, shaking his head, and hugging them again. Didn’t seem right, somehow, but he couldn’t explain how it was wrong either.

Mazelton closed his eyes and tried to think of Danae. Her calm stoicism and resolve to carry on through whatever troubles came her way. He imagined her clapping out the time to Bright Sky, Clear Waters as Mazelton danced a funeral offering. Maybe other people would join in the singing, or join him in the dance. Her voice was rough and untrained, and all the more beautiful for it. More genuine and real.

Mazelton heard the strum of a stringed instrument, long necked and bulbous at the base. It yanked him from his dream and back into the present. Some old timer from the Collective was standing next to their fire, fingers flicking across the strings. Energy built, then stopped as the old man began to sing. It was an odd sort of song to Mazelton’s ear. The pace of it was like the old man was explaining something to the crowd, but the pitch was pure operatic immensity. The old man didn’t just put his heart in a box, he offered it with bloody hands to the crowd. It was a song of tragedy, of immense loss, of the pain of those left behind. Mazelton didn’t understand a word of it, and didn’t need to.

The old man sang for a few minutes, finished on an astonishingly long note, and sat down again. Another old man stood, and started singing another song. The crowd joined in on this one. Their harmony was tight, but they carried it with grace. Then they split up into quarters and the song turned into a round, rolling complexities of grief and hope spinning and rising and falling around the camp. There was no conductor, everyone just knew their role and how things were supposed to go. The rounds folded back in on themselves- four into two, two into one, one into a terrible silence.

Mazelton bowed his head. It was a fine sacrifice. When Mazelton woke the next morning, the bodies of the Leoinida emigrants had been washed and wrapped in shrouds for burial, and a tiny sack of cores had been slipped under the flap of his tent. He opened the sack. Rough, unpolished, tiny, some no bigger than a seed. Not good for much but powder. He squeezed the bag tightly, feeling the little beads of heat grinding together. No, not good for much but powder. He would think hard about how to make weapons of them.

Humble Bissette had the guts to hand him the cores directly, after the funerals. Mazelton didn’t see what happened to the creature, but it’s carcass and heart cases had vanished by sunrise.

After the funerals, Polyclitus convened a Grand Congress of the caravan. The subject was simple, if bleak. There were now wagons without aurochs, wagons missing people, and perhaps most tragic, people without wagons. They were the truly destitute, pure burdens on the caravan- and knew it. Whatever food or goods they had were damaged and scattered, what could be recovered was, but almost by definition, it wouldn’t be enough to get them all the way to the New Territories.

Polyclitus stood, clean but haggard, on the box of a wagon. He had a long night last night, and it would be a longer day yet.

“You were there, you know what happened. Some of you know what must happen now. The Caravan continues. With pain. With grief. With much greater caution. And yes, we will be taking some extra precautions going forward, but that’s not what brings us here today. What we need to figure out today, right this morning, is this- what wagons do we have, what goods need wagons and don’t have them, what wagons need aurochs and don’t have them, what people need wagons and goods and don’t have them, and for those missing spouses, well, you don’t have to sort it out today, but there may be opportunities to… turn a tragedy into an even stronger foundation for your family.”

That last sentence was not met with warmth.

“The Nimu Caravan lost two wagons, one auroch and a teamster. I am putting that here-” he held up a large ledger, “along with how much space and weight we will need to store the goods we did save. Now, I am going to put this meeting into recess while you all sort yourselves into clusters and try to sort everything out amongst yourselves. If you're not traveling with a bigger group, find the other independents near you and group up. If your little group can't even things out, you send someone up that can read and write Swabian, and you put down everything in the notebook. Toko here will be on hand to help record everything, you just need to make sure they get it down right.”

Toko waved.

“This won’t go fast. But I ask you all to be patient with each other, and help each other as best you can. We will reconvene at lunch.” Polyclitus jumped off the wagon box before people could start asking questions and vanished into the wagons. He clearly didn’t plan to referee any arguments unless he absolutely had to.

Mazelton sat next to Duane on the box of their wagon. They didn’t say anything, just watched all the little tragedies and dramas play out around them. A man without a wife offered to “take in” some teenage kids who lost their parents. The way he looked at the girls wasn’t exactly paternal, and the way he looked at the son wasn’t even friendly. Would they be safer with him? Or should they try to run the wagon themselves? They were old enough that they could probably manage. Humble Bissette slammed into that conversation in a big hurry, but she couldn’t be everywhere. Some version of that story was happening everywhere, with those who lost their wagons catching the worst of it.

The two biggest groups were the Dusties, who weren’t particularly organized but had some ties to each other, and the very organized veterans of the Leoinida Collective. The collective was the fastest to sort things out. From what Mazelton could tell, there wasn’t any such thing as a private wagon or private goods, it was all held in common. The burden was spread out, and the people taken in with a minimum of fuss. If some of the people didn’t look too happy with the arrangements, they kept it to themselves.

The Dusties were more of a mess, as it wasn’t one big coven. Rather, a score or more covens contributed somewhere between one and three families and their wagons. Humble Bissette was well liked and well respected, but she couldn’t rally all of the Dusties to her. Not when there were so many conflicting interests. Just because you were a Dusty didn’t make you a good person. He saw too many cases of people “taken in” in exchange for promises of labor. Unpaid labor. Either on their feet or on their back and really, it would be both. Maybe it was better than starving, or taking your chances in the wild.

The nastiest fights broke out over “lost” property. It wasn’t actually abandoned, of course. No families had been massacred to the last, so there was no truly ownerless property to divide. That didn’t stop opportunists from pouncing on the smashed wagons, claiming that this or that had belonged to them, and now that the hired wagon could no longer carry their goods, they would just take it back. Out of the kindness of their hearts, they would not demand the former carrier pay damages.

Except for the one exceptionally vile lady who did exactly that, and accused the family of theft when the containers did not, in fact, contain what she said they did. Loranne busted her in the mouth, and nobody saw anything. This didn’t settle the wretch down, of course. She screamed that she would have Luanne flogged in front of the whole caravan for her murderous attack, her wife nodding strongly behind her. Then Luanne’s family rolled up behind her, and the Humble stomped in alongside the family and coven members of the ‘thieves,’ and things would have gotten very violent very fast if Polyclitus hadn’t chosen that moment to intervene. There was no theft. Everyone was to go back to their wagons. Or be banished. All questions of lost property would get sorted out after everything was recorded in the ledger.

Mazelton hadn’t drawn arms. He wasn’t going to risk a shot into a crowd. He just memorized some faces, and kept his hands in plain sight. Didn’t say a word to Duane either.

He didn’t catch what was going on with the independents, but he had to assume it was worse. Somehow. The independents generally didn’t have much to start with. If they lost even some of their food, they would die ugly and slow.

It might be a kindness to put them down like the aurochs. Just lineup his little box with an eye and let them go easy. He didn’t want to do that job. But who else could do it? It was so easy to get wrong, turn something fast and peaceful into something awful and lingering. Mazelton forcefully shook the morbid thoughts away. Luanne still looked ready to take a swing at someone. He walked over to her and offered his hand. She glared at him, took his hand, and they walked down to the stream.

It was one of those little bastard streams that you could cross with one big step, and barely two hands deep, but time and erosion had given it vertical banks a meter tall. It was like the Ælfflæd decided to screw wheeled vehicles specifically. Everyone else was fine, wheels could get fucked. Some of those broken wagons would get turned into a temporary bridge, Mazelton suspected. Either that, or some serious digging would have to be done to make ramps down and up the banks. Maybe Polyclitus knew where a ford was?

Oh look, some of those excellent ducks.

“I get it. Okay? I get it. I screwed up. You don’t have to tell me I screwed up. I get it. The opposite of calming things down. Not the time, practically begging for more violence and then a vendetta and then EVERYONE is screwed. I’m not dumb. But that SHIT EATING INSECT tried to steal the food from out of baby Ke’si’s mouth. Literally. She’s six months old! Six. Months. Old. And she tried to steal her food. And then claimed that the Pooles stole two water of salt from her, oh and six drams of peppercorns. Six. Drams. Of Peppercorns. Do you think the Pooles could afford even one dram of peppercorns? Do you think they have ever, in their lives, seen six drams of peppercorns? She might as well have accused them of stealing Father Sun, which she no doubt owns too, only those damn Pooles stole her deed so she can’t prove it just now!”

Hey, that one duck is grooming the other duck while they are swimming together. That's pretty sweet. Are they mated? Do ducks mate for life? Who would be a good person to ask about ducks?

“And then she has the gall to say that she is an honorary anchorite in Green Meadow and if we know what is good for her, we will back her up now or reap it later when she takes up her post. I mean, “Honorary Anchorite?” Who the hell could possibly fund that in the Disputed Territory? Who would bother? In fact, who the hell would even want an Anchorite anywhere? I wish she was a damn Anchorite, then nobody would have to put up with her SHIT.”

“What’s an Anchorite?” Mazelton asked.

The question seemed to bring Luanne up with a jerk.

“A hermit that thinks about the nature of the Dusty World exclusively. Or some other religion I guess. They don’t really exist any more. Funny to think there is something I know about that you don’t.”

“I don’t know all kinds of things. Like, what’s the story with these excellent ducks?”

“What ducks? Those ducks?”

“Yes. I have seen these ducks before. Look at how bright the feathers are- they are practically glowing. They seem very affectionate with each other. But I don’t know anything about them. Do you know about these excellent ducks?”

Luanne gave Mazelton a look.

“More than you, I guess. Are you seriously going to talk ducks right now?”

“I mean, it doesn't have to be ducks. But these are really excellent ducks. Look, it’s sticking its head so far down it’s tail is pointing straight up!”

“That is normal for ducks, in my experience. Look, just say what you have to say, ok? You don’t have to keep dancing around the topic.”

“But I don’t have anything to say?”

“What.”

Mazelton just smiled and made a little hole in the air for Luanne to pour her words into. Occasionally he would smile and nod. Eventually Luanne ran out of words, and a little while after that, she started crying. She grabbed ahold of Mazelton and started sobbing. Mazelton made soothing noises as he sat them on the grass.

“I thought I was going to die. I knew I was going to die. We don’t even own a slug thrower and our slings did nothing, the crossbow did nothing. It just kept killing everyone.”

“It was terrifying.” Mazelton agreed.

“Why aren’t you crying?”

“I will later. Honestly, it hasn’t hit me yet. Not the full… thing of it.”

“We were going to die. The only reason we didn’t die was that it was too busy killing those pricks from the Leoinida Collective.” Her face stiffened with anger. “This is their fault, them and their stupid guns!”

“Lots of people shooting yesterday. And they caught it worse than most.”

“I don’t care. They shouldn’t be here. I hate them! And now they killed people! Why are you laughing?!” She slapped his arm hard enough to raise a welt through his shirt.

“I’m laughing because people keep acting like I am going to kill all of them when the person they really should be afraid of is the Humble’s daughter.”

“Oh screw you!”

“I’m engaged, sorry. And Humble Dougal was very clear that it was not allowed.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m engaged? I did tell you.”

“No, I knew that. I mean, what’s Humble Dougal got to do with anything?”

“Oh, well, ah… did I tell you I’m a convert?”

“No. So?”

“So I wasn’t raised in a coven.”

“Yeah, one of the big Clans out east. I kind of wondered about that, actually.”

“So the clans are very big on bloodlines but there are a lot of fun things you can do with a lover that aren't going to lead to kids.”

“Yeeeeesssss…”

“So I kind of assumed that was fine, but figured I better check with Humble Dougal because I heard some things. It was a WHOLE THING.” Mazelton waved his arms for emphasis. “You wouldn’t believe the things he said I can’t do. I mean, I’m far from the most sexually demanding person, you know? I can keep it in my robes just fine, thank you.”

“You are wearing pants.”

“Hush. Point is, he made me swear that I wouldn’t do anything with anyone before I wedded Danae. Can you believe that?”

“Yes?”

“It’s a long, boring trip. Very long. Very boring. So very long and boring.”

“I see.”

“I don’t. I mean, I’m deliberately not looking, you know? But I see a nicely turned skull and it tickles you just so, and you can’t just not look at people, right?”

“Skull? Not, you know, tits or ass?”

Mazelton gave her a weird look.

“I guess those are good too?”

“You are a very strange man, Mazelton. What’s the skull fascination? Go on, shock me.”

“You tell me. You got a skull flattering haircut after all. You’ve been keeping it sharp this whole trip too.”

Luanne touched her hair self consciously.

“I copied it from a magic lantern show. The theater company had glass plates with pictures of all kinds of things and they would shine a light core behind them, make the pictures look all big on the wall. There was this pretty city lady. Dressed up in these amazing robes, all kinds of flowers stitched into them, a long knife belted on her waist. And she had this amazing haircut, made her look so fierce, but so pretty! After the show, I begged them to let me copy the picture and they let me. I spent ages getting the hair right.”

“You nailed it. Shaved sides and a long, flowing top. You can really make out the bone structure, but you left enough to protect your head from scrapes and accentuate the pretty lines of your skull.”

“And again with the pretty skulls. A little creepy.”

“What’s creepy about skulls? I hate to tell you, but there is a terrifying skeleton nearby. In fact it is… INSIDE OF YOU!”

“Ho ho. But really.”

“Well, it’s… you know.”

“I really don’t.”

“I don’t even know how to explain this. So, you know when you take a head you need to display it, right? And nobody wants an ugly trophy, or to put up a trophy that belonged to a nobody. So it is a thing. If you want to be somebody, you have to have a display worthy skull. I’m not one of those “only one right answer” people, lots of room for different kinds of beauty, but everyone wants to see strong lines and excellent symmetry, right?”

Luanne stuck her finger in her ear and started wiggling it around, a very confused look on her face.

“So everyone who is someone might not be gorgeous, but they have a great skull shape, and they tend to marry people with a great skull shape, so all the powerful, pretty people have a great skull shape, and now it’s just a thing? I know, I’m kind of pathetic just focusing on one thing so much, but… well I am honest to my aesthetics and that’s all I can say about that.”

“So… in order to be rich and powerful you need to have a skull that someone will want to hang on their wall as a trophy?”

“Oh you wish it was wall worthy! My Grandma was a living legend, stacked bodies for days, and she only got one skull on the family wall. Most people have a little table by the door or keep them in a box. Take them out when they have guests over, that kind of thing.”

“I am so lost here. You had a little table for skulls by your front door?”

“Mother and Father did. The few times I brought back a head, I was only allowed to put it on display for a week, and then I had to throw them into the catacombs. I mean, they weren’t great skulls. It’s not like I was anything special in the Clan so I only drew a handful of duels, and they were all social climbing scrubs. Nothing to brag about, but. You know. I kind of wish they had let me keep them. Or that they made a little bit of a fuss. I got a couple of approving nods and a week’s sufferance.”

“Well I guess they had their own skulls to add to the table.”

“Nope. They weren’t really popular targets for duels either. Just… “You can keep them for as long as you like when you have your own apartment.” and that’s that.”

“Ah. I assume your skull doesn't measure up?”

“Hey! My skull is just fine, thank you. It’s not the best I admit. A bit too pronounced on the cheek bones, a hair too much occipital- I see it too. I could be a Table Chief easily with a skull like this. Maybe even a Hall Master, if I made some big contributions.”

“And I am lost again. And missing the excellent ducks.”

“They are great, aren’t they? Look, he’s splashing the water everywhere with his beak!”

“That one’s female, actually. But getting back to your nonsense story- Promotions were based on skull shape?”

“More like a soft limit on how high you could get promoted. You would die of shame if a clan officer had a skull nobody was willing to display, right? Maleimia’s skull was displayed on a latrine sponge handle and then kicked into the trash. It triggered a two week war with the Xia clan so we could save face, but really, her whole family had to leave the city and live in the country.”

Mazelton shook his head.

“Poor bastards. The worst thing was, the Xia were right. Total asymmetry of the jaw line, by all accounts. Still, she was an anamnesis and shouldn’t have been treated like that.”

Luanne started laughing.

“That is the dumbest most made up story I have ever heard. But I do feel better!”

Luanne had her arm over her eyes, so she couldn’t see how wronged Mazelton looked.