The walls of Cold Garden were being torn down. Once imposing stone towering ten meters high, they were being replaced by three meter tall piles of rammed earth and rubble. The rubble was held in place by wickerwork columns, the earth tamped down around them. Thousands upon thousands of baskets, ringing the small city, with cartloads of dirt being hauled up and shoveled into place. Ordinary citizens had come out, taking turns with the big wooden poles to tamp down the dirt.

It was a glorious riot of color. Each section of the wall was being built by citizens sporting the colors of their neighborhood- Light blue and red, red and white, green and black, so on and so on. They had their own work songs that they belted back and forth. Mazelton saw what he would swear was a dance competition between two sections, each side slamming their feet down on the new sections of the wall. Tamping down the earth while they danced. The Joyful Throng were a weird bunch, but not bad.

Policlitus led the caravan through the gates, to be inspected by the local militia. Fees to trade in the city were cheap, but they did insist on knowing exactly what you were bringing in.

Mazelton could see more artillery dug in behind the rammed dirt walls. In some places, it looked like bunkers were being built. He worked to keep the worry off his face. Artillery, bunkers, industrialization- that was a developmental route that this epoch didn’t favor. The fact that it was so widespread said that something very powerful, very rich, was interfering.

The militiaman stuck his head in the wagon and looked at Mazelton.

“Are you the polisher?”

“I am.”

“Name and Clan, if any, please.”

“Mazelton, Ma clan.”

The guard looked bored.

“Can you prove that?”

Mazelton drew the clan sigil in the air. It hung, shining in the dust and animal dander for just a moment before blowing away. That got a pause, and another respectful look.

“Sorry about that. We get some fakes through here, you know? I do have to check everything, regardless of your clan.”

“Go ahead. While you are doing that, do the Xia have a Clan house or bank here?”

“Yes, Polisher. Straight down this street for half a mile, then when you get to the big square with the really big fountain, take the big street on the left. Their bank is on the right a few blocks down.”

“My thanks.”

“Joyful days, Polisher Mazelton.”

The wagon rattled along the cobbled streets. Good, solid stones, clearly well set in well built roads. Which was a good thing, again, but also a worrying thing. Again. The Swabians had good roads. Not great roads, but good roads. So did loads of other, smaller, regional powers. It was by no means certain that the technology was just handed to the Joyful Throng.

“Got to see the Xia. Damnit.”

Duane looked at him sideways.

“They creep me out.”

Policlitus was an explosion of activity- very fast, everywhere all at once. People were dispatched to buy supplies. Fodder. Spare parts. Spare aurochs. Sell some cargo, buy others. Hire people. Fire people. Medical checks on some of the animals. Dental checks on some of the people. Counting out the pay. Collecting fees from people leaving the caravan. Collecting fees from people joining the caravan. The many people joined the caravan. Swear loudly, and adjust the orders for supplies. At one point, by Mazelton’s count, Policlitus was doing seven things at once.

Eventually, having sorted the orbits of the stars and all lesser matters to his satisfaction, Policlitus called for Mazelton, Madam Lettie, Humble Bissette and Mendiluze. It was time to resolve the “seed bank issue.” They had gone round in circles a dozen times on the subject, but ultimately no one had a better idea about what to do with the seeds beyond “let the Xia manage it.” Over the outraged protests of Mendiluze, who only caved when it was pointed out that nobody in his group of settlers knew how to raise the mystery crops.

“I still think this is a terrible idea. We can figure it out.”

“You said that. We disagree.”

“But to leave a vital resource in the hands of the Tainted!”

“You said that too. It’s not a vital resource, it’s some mystery seeds.”

“I notice you aren’t disputing the “Tainted” part!”

“Not going to lie, I have always found the Xia creepy.” Madam Lettie said in a calm voice.

“Oh, then I’m sure our resident Polisher must love them.”

Mazelton brushed past a man juggling small burlap sacks filled with colored chalk. The colorful dust filled the air around him, and gave Mazelton a surprisingly even coating. He sneezed, and decided that he wouldn’t dignify that statement with a reply.

Mendiluze settled into grumpy silence as they made their way into the Bank.

“Policlitus of the Nimu Caravan Company and companions to see the Honorable Expert Xiatoktok.” Policlitus told a clerk. Shortly after that, a lower manager came over and ushered them into a meeting room, awaiting the arrival of the Honorable Expert.

The room was odd, to Mazelton’s tastes. A long, low table ran the length of the room. Very low, the seats were basically just cushions on the floor. Of course, those cushions were stuffed with the finest cotton, gently fragranced with the barest hint of an herbal aroma. The carpet was gorgeously patterned, a riot of colors, and such a deep plush pile that one could almost lose their first knuckle in it. The table was some sort of rare wood, its grain a swirl of tiny knots and sweeping striations. It had been polished perfectly smooth, then coated with a clear lacquer. It must have cost a fortune. Mazelton looked over at the others in the room.

“What do you think this room is?” He asked quietly.

“A boast. An expression of their wealth. Status.” Policlitus replied. Mendiluze nodded along. After a moment, so did Madam Lettie and Humble Bissette. Mazelton shook his head.

“Status yes, boast, not exactly. It is proof that they are able to carry out their threats. This isn’t about money. It’s about the time of your life.”

That got him some blank stares. The awkwardness was saved by Expert Xiatoktok sweeping into the room. A slightly older gentleman, hair going solidly gray with a neat little mustache over a handsome face. Slim, with just a hint of paunch, befitting his status in the clan. He compensated for the small belly with a glorious excess of fabric. He was like a moving cloud of gold and ivory thread, all covered in dense, tiny embroidery. On the middle finger of his left hand was a single dull, worn silver looking ring, with a small chunk of black stone set into it.

“Policlitus, good to see you again! You are looking prosperous, and your caravan grows from strength to strength. I think I recognize some of your friends here, but perhaps you could introduce me?”

Introductions were duly made. Madam Lettie sat quietly by the side, her role was to play the accountant. Mazelton was firmly invited to just sit there and not talk unless absolutely necessary. He was there to “keep the Xia honest,” not to try and negotiate.

Mazelton had never been particularly obedient.

Expert Xiatoktok tapped the bare middle finger of his right hand twice, lightly upon the table. Mazelton dragged the pinky of his left hand a few inches to the left along the table, then subtly flicked it away. Tapping three times with the ringed finger on the left hand. Mazelton replied with a slight crinkling of his eyes and an almost microscopic smile.

“So you have had the seed cache appraised?” A pinky gently stroked immaculately brushed whiskers.

“Yep. We have a good idea on what most of them are, but we would need the rest evaluated.” Policlitus replied. Mazelton deliberately let his eyes wander to a picture of a mountain covered in pine.

“We can provide the best experts in Cold Garden, naturally.” Xiatoktok nodded with an expression that might fool you into thinking he was smiling. As he nodded, his right hand flattened out on the table. Mazelton’s eyes slightly narrowed at the veiled provocation.

It was the unterspracht, the conversation about the conversation, communicated not with words but gestures and contextual interaction with the environment. Each move was a puzzle, a riddle, a trap. To be able to converse on at least two levels was the sign of a properly cultured Clansfolk, at least in the big cities of the Eastern Edge.

Right now, Xiatoktok was winning. After all, he was holding the base conversation, while Mazelton could only reply.

“No, I’m sorry, but you are only providing the seeds and a license. And the license only matters because the Xia say it matters. We would be putting up all the other costs for the project, in perpetuity. A ten percent interest in the dividends, even without the ownership percentage, is, frankly, generous.”

Mazelton looked back at the picture of the mountains and rolled his right wrist. He might have been stretching it, or he might have been laying some cards on the table. The little smile suggested that he had quite the hand.

“The license matters because the Collective will damn well enforce its interests if necessary.” Mendiluze growled. They had been in the room for thirty minutes, which was apparently twenty nine minutes longer than he could stand.

Mazelton had timed his move nicely. Just as Xiatoktok was trying to figure out what he had missed, Mendiluze’s naked threat distracted him. He jammed up, just for a second, as he tried to switch gears. But it was too late. Mazelton had taken the round, and the next would be on his terms.

They went for another half hour, when Xiatoktok called for a refreshment break. A servant brought in some crackers and fruit, as well as some cold glasses of sweet tea. It was lovely. Mazelton ducked out to the bathroom. Having relieved himself, the bathroom attendant handed him a towel and asked-

“What does the Expert need to know?”

“That isn’t the right question. The right question is, how much will he pay to learn why everyone is so nervous? The real reason.”

“You know the answer?”

“I know I know more than he does.”

“A bold assertion.”

“Not that bold- I have questions I want answered as well. He is free to negotiate as much as he likes, of course, but our final number will be fifteen percent interest in the profits, a revocable license, five percent ownership and auditing rights. Or I remind everyone that, while they may be less professionally managed, an independent trader might give us substantially better terms.”

“Now that really was a bold assertion.”

The negotiations temporarily paused so that the seeds could be evaluated by the Xia clan appraiser- “So we know exactly what we would be investing in.” Everyone split up on their various errands. Mazelton went directly to a nearby restaurant, its sign painted in vivid yellow with little red birds decorating it.

The little potato dumplings in rich broth were superb, as was the zippy herbal salad that accompanied it. Of course, the fresh baked bread and the absolute puddle of seasoned dipping oil was the real killer. Mazelton ate it up like he was mad at it.

“I love fresh baked bread in oil, especially here. The mother of the bread is more than a century old, passed down through one family, generation to generation. The oil comes from, not seeds, but these little bitter fruits. Totally inedible by themselves, but if you brine them, they become deliciously tart and totally suitable for snacking. You can also press them for oil, but that takes an awful amount of the fruits for even a small quantity of oil. And it takes years and years for the trees to mature.”

Expert Xiatoktok made a polite bow and gestured at a chair.

“Expert Xiatoktok, please join me.” Mazelton smiled. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.” Xiatoktok’s grinned easily. “How about another round of bread and oil?”

“Delightful.” They put the order in and sat back, patiently waiting. There was a rhythm to this sort of thing, and they were both looking to catch the moment.

“Were you a Jasmine for the Ma, back in Old Radler?” Expert Xiatoktok asked. His shoulders were relaxed, and it looked like most of his attention was on the door to the kitchen.

“You wound me! A member of the main line, working as a Jasmine?” Mazelton replied in mock outrage. “Although I might as well ask what brings a main line Xia all the way out here.”

“Same as always. Time. It’s starting to pile up on either side of the Ramparts, and we are here to harvest.” Xiatoktok’s smile was quite genuine, this time. It sent shivers up and down Mazelton’s spine.

“Speaking of time, it does look a bit fractured along the wall.”

“Doesn't it? Oh we are harvesting as best we can, but someone is… flooding the fields, as it were.”

“I have… some suspicions along those lines. And some plain facts.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Mazelton just gave Expert Xiatoktok a smile. The bread arrived, and the two of them dove on it with indecent enthusiasm. When they finished, Mazelton paid the bill and hauled Xiatoktok out to the walls.

They looked out over the fields, to where the Laginalopo were camped. They had spread out enormous sheets, dark blue on top, shimmery silver on the bottom. The panels were about two meters square, with a big gray circle situated at the corners. Rifles lay on the circles. Mazelton let his senses extend outwards, pushing them as far as he could. No more heat than usual.

“Did you ever manage to get your hands on one of those rifles? Or the sheets?”

“My skills were insufficient, alas.”

“Bet you a rad I know what they are.”

“No bet, I’m pretty sure I do too.”

“Fair to say that this represents a level of technological development far beyond the Laginalopo?”

“They could not, and cannot, even explain converting solar power to electricity, let alone how a railgun works.” Xiatoktok agreed.

“You know who can though? And who could set up a whole industrial manufacturing line, and is a real big believer in letting peasants fight for them?”

“Other than us?” Xiatoktok grinned.

“Other than us. Our old friends, the Nacon dry-minds.”

That wiped the smile off Xiatoktok’s face.

“You have proof?”

“I have evidence. Not quite the same. And some evidence as to what is driving their current… urgency. My price is not unreasonable, given the time and pain, literal pain, spent acquiring it. Seasoned time, the Xia 's favorite.”

Xiatoktok thought it over. “Exactly how much time?”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

“You might have a watch.”

“I don’t.”

“Some Ma can tell time by the heat decay of certain rocks and metals.”

“True. Not me, though.”

“You have to give me something!”

Mazelton spread his hands. “One hundred and sixty hours? Some of that was spent passed out on hard ground, feeling the cold leech the heat from my body as I starved, with insects trying to feed on my open wounds. Not to mention the violence, fear, emotional exhaustion, existential terror separate from the general fear of physical injury or death, and days’ worth of sores rubbed across my legs.”

Xiatoktok’s eyes were wide, his nostrils flared as he licked his lips. He didn’t look this hungry over lunch.

“You might as well have just said “about a week.” He breathed.

Mazelton just looked back out across the fields. A Laginalopo tribesman lifted one of the railguns off the ground and held it above his head. He dropped to his knees and chanted a loud prayer of thanks, then got up, dusted his knees off, and went about his day. The Joyful Throng were digging in their gun pits and building trenches, converting stone walls to dirt. Getting ready to fight a very different sort of war.

“Fine. Fifteen percent interest in the profits, a revocable license, five percent ownership and auditing rights. And I will do my best to answer your questions honestly, so long as they are not excessive.”

Mazelton smiled and nodded.

“Let's go back to the bank. I think this would benefit from a quiet room and a cup of good tea.”

Mazelton sipped his tea, feeling drained from telling the story of the attack of the slave machine and the battle between the Stone God and the drone army. He made sure to include every sensory detail, every twinge of emotion, and most particularly, pain.

“I remember a wedding I attended a couple of years ago. Xiatowa married his cousin, Xiatoti. Beautiful pair, they had loved each other since they were kids, and since they were a great match, the clan married them. The gift the couple made to their marriage was the talk of the city for weeks- they had, working separately, lured two siblings. A brother and sister, twins. They had broken their will over months, chained them in inescapable debt bondage, and reduced them to concubinage. Each thinking that they were protecting the other, unaware of the other’s suffering. The pair were revealed to each other, wearing shackles of gold notes, at the altar. Their screams of grief and pain were the highlight of the ceremony, as the ritualist bound their souls to eternally serve the Xia, and the happily married couple.”

“That is so sweet! Too sweet, I can practically feel my teeth melting!” Xiatoktok smiled indulgently. “Youngsters. Ah! To be so young and in love again.”

“Speaking of the young and in love- what happened after the fall of Old Radler?”

“Oh, now that is a long story.”

“I can’t afford a too long story.”

“True. Well, I will summarize. After Malima did whatever she did-” Xiatoktok glared at Mazelton, “pretty much everyone died. Some people on the outskirts made it, and a couple of people with fast cheves. We were aware of the attempted coup through Clan channels, but we had thought it would end… well with a redistribution, not with extermination. Hardly the first time Old Radler was conquered, after all, and we all find ways to survive.”

Mazelton nodded along.

“Apparently Malima saw it differently. And being the horrible old witch that she was,” This time Mazelton glared at Xiatoktok, who merely drew a circle on the table with his ring bedecked finger. Right. The old bastard just looked young. He was probably the same age as Grandmother. “She managed to throw the whole Eastern Edge into chaos.”

“Oh?”

“The Cabells, as you probably know, were a pawn of the North Sea Confederation, along with a few other powers scattered over the Eastern Edge. The idea, as best we can reconstruct, was to overwhelm Old Radler in a day. This would establish their prestige, and give them the war funds to drive expansion further. The Cabells would be the new governors of the city, and the Ma would labor under them. Or be removed entirely, if they weren’t cooperative.”

Mazelton nodded along.

“So the North Sea Confederation poured a mountain of money and a sea of people into Old Radler. Loads of specially trained soldiers and political cadres to support the “Spontaneous Popular Uprising.” The soldiers spearheaded the assaults, cracked open doors and walls, cleared out the most effective fighters, and then the mob poured in. Again, this is our reconstruction based on what they tried in other cities.”

“It wasn’t just Old Radler?”

“Not even close. Every major city. Lone Pine got hammered, though what’s-his-name, the Ma patriarch, held the Clan house. Afterward he lined the entire road between Lone Pine and Sing Sing with impaled rioters and saboteurs. The Xia contributed the stakes- we held in Sing Sing, but not Lone Pine. Many were lost.”

“May they rest in silk and ancient oak.”

“Thank you. I never know quite what to say to console a Ma clan member. I am told there is a ritual consolation, but no one has ever given me an honest answer about what it is.”

“”Don’t worry, we’ll get the bastard.” if it’s a violent death, “They won at life.” if it’s a peaceful one. Of course, the spirit is more important than the exact form.”

Xiatoktok looked shocked. “For sixty years I have been convinced the Ma were just toying with me.”

“Nope. We have the best weddings, the shortest funerals and the most pragmatic clichés.”

“Best wedding is pretty debatable. The food is atrocious.”

“That’s too strong. I grant you the food is better at a Xia wedding, but did you ever have more fun at a wedding than at a Ma wedding?”

Xiatoktok had a distant look and a little smile, as he stroked his mustache. Then he glanced over at Mazelton and growled.

“I didn’t walk right for a week afterward. I still get a weird erection when I smell violets.”

“The Clan thanks you for supporting the couple in their marital journey.”

“Oh, you are ever so welcome.” He pointedly looked at a picture of the sun setting over a valley of thin trees. “Anyway. The uprisings were going pretty well in many of the cities, stalled out in others, when word spread about Old Radler. We got word in less than an hour, others were almost as fast. Too many interests tied into Old Radler, too many eyes on it.”

Mazelton nodded along.

“This threw things into chaos. They had been counting on Old Radler as the lynchpin of the whole regional strategy. The money, the trade routes, the core production, it was all hinging on that. So what was supposed to be a lightning war, where the army was welcomed by puppet governments and most of the cost was borne by the conquered, turned into a quagmire. Most of their most elite soldiers were tied up in the guerrilla fights in the cities, and all the local governments were telling their citizens that it was the North Sea Confeds and their local traitors that destroyed Old Radler. The Clans all knew better, of course, and the Confeds blamed you as loudly as they could, but…”

“Why would the famously survivalist Ma blow themselves, and all their money, up?” Mazelton concluded.

“More or less. So the Eastern Edge is currently, to use a colloquial and accurate term, screwed. And not in a fun way. Constant low key partisan war, from the Cold North Sea down most of the way to the Southern Archipelago. Trade is, to put it very mildly, disrupted. Core production is about twenty five percent of what it was, because the Ma have been on the damn warpath, killing any unaligned polishers that dare to sell to the Confeds or their proxies. The other Clans have all declared a boycott of the Confeds too, since we also got hit. Still, the Confeds have a lot of people, a lot of money, and a lot of ambition, so they want to grind it out. The next century is going to be… unpleasant. All things considered, I am quite happy where I am.”

“Harvesting time, as it washes up against the Ramparts.”

Xiatoktok pulled out a little gold disk. “Ever seen one of these?”

“Not in person. A gold coin? Currency?”

“Exactly. One of these could, at one time, buy a life. You could have someone work themselves to death for a single one of these coins. They thought it was magic, something in the metal that gave it terrible power over humans.” Xiatoktok looked a little feverish at the thought.

“It didn’t, of course. The magic was in thinking that the time of a person’s life could be turned into little markers, into bits of bookkeeping, and then… lost. Traded away, for other people’s time. It’s not a gold coin, it’s the time to raise chickens, to mine iron, to smelt it, to learn how to mine and smelt, to organize miners and persuade them that they wanted to go into the dark and dust and die young for the sake of the little gold coin. For the illusion that they could have their time back.”

Xiatoktok smiled with all his perfect teeth. “We harvest time. All the time that other people lose so easily. And I am proud to say I haven’t lost a single second in seventy years.”

Mazelton tried to guess how many tens of hours went into making Xiatoktok’s embroidered clothes. He gave up fast. It was taking too long to figure out.