Most of the day was spent negotiating the narrow mountain pass. It was once wider, Mazelton could sort of see where the mountains had been carved away, but whenever that was, it was a long time ago. Now it was just a crack in the Ramparts, barely more than two wagons apart. Polyclitus had sent scouts, making sure the way ahead was clear. Nobody wanted to try and back out several hundred wagons.

Polyclitus prayed over lunch. It wasn’t a Dusty prayer. Mazelton didn’t know what it was. Polylcitus knelt in the dirt and bowed his head the way he had come, then spun on his knees and bowed the way he was going. He got up, dusted himself off, and got back to his tucker. It was unsettling to watch a man who seemed so self reliant nakedly turn to faith. Like he was admitting, for the first time, that he wasn’t enough to keep them safe. Mazelton could relate, of course, but for him, it wasn’t begging. This was begging. The Ma cut deals.

Mazelton frowned. He had made some small sacrifices to the Ælfflæd along the way. Some rituals, way back around Muddy Waters. Some offerings of blood and pain. His burning ribs were proof of that. But no grand offerings of pain and terror and the lives of his enemies. Or just victims. It was important to call things what they really were. It made it easier to call them enemies. It made it right to call them victims.

He had never hunted someone as a sacrifice. The memory of the delivery person toppling, not understanding why their brain was leaking out of their ears, intruded violently. Mazelton felt sick. It was hardly a hunt. More like opportunism. But of course he knew people who had. Hunted. Other humans.

It was by no means common, but perhaps once every couple of years a grand ritual was performed. The celebrant looked excited and maybe a little scared, as they made the hundred cuts under the supervision of an expert from the Hall of Rituals. Of course they were scared, can you imagine if they screwed up? It would ruin them in the Clan. But the rewards from the Ælfflæd, and the honor from the Clan, were more than enough to tempt people to try. Rumor had it that the higher up in the Clan you were, the more common it was. The rituals were far more elaborate and involved. People made their own tools, or had them made by discreet and skilled artisans. Private ceremonies, of course. Some bargains had to be kept secret.

He felt that his marriage needed some security, but it was hard to think of what to ask and what to offer. He didn’t dare be too general. “Don’t let me say something stupid.” could result in a stroke or throat cancer. “Keep my family safe.” Sounded good, but it was a bad idea. Just how much were you prepared to sacrifice to make that happen? And how, exactly, do you think that an extra dimensional being without biological functions such as mortality, defines “safe?” Fertility was usually a safe bet, as was punishment for infidelity. They worked a treat on bringing in good harvests too.

“Hi Danae, my beloved! I bring you sugar, and spices, that your meals will be a daily delight. I bring your art to beautify our home. I will make soft gowns to adorn and adore you. I have books to delight your mind, and all my skill and attention to delight your body. I only ask that you make this home a safe place for me, for us, for the family I hope to make with you.”

“Also, just, you know, so we are all on the same page, if you ever fuck somone else without my OK, you and they will die a horrible, lingering death. You will technically have remains, but calling it a body would be an exaggeration. I, of course, would never raise a hand against you, but I did murder six people to keep an unearthly killer on retainer for the year. Because I love you, and I love us.”

Even in his own head, that sounded unacceptably twisted. Which was odd, because it was more or less standard in the Clan. Not everyone could afford such a strong curse, naturally, but the Clan splashed out on the incense offerings for even small weddings. Just for the first year or two, until they had kids. After that, it was on the couple.

It sounded… coercive. Abusive. Violent. Not safe. And he very much wanted safe. Mazelton stared up at the snow capped mountains as they plodded past, and tried to work it all out.

The mountains seemed to come to a dead end, miles ahead. A “little” pocket in the wall, and then the slopes turned up at forty five degrees, and got steeper from there. It was an illusion of distance and perspective. A little after lunch, there was a ninety degree turn in the trail, a hard right around a mountain, and they were traveling west again. Still trapped amongst the peaks.

Mazelton found himself unaccountably irritable. It wasn’t the pain. Well. The pain couldn’t be helping, but he didn’t think that he was irritable because of it. Maybe it was the elevation? Whatever it was, he was in a mood by the time they stopped for dinner. He added an extra big dollop of hot sauce to his lentils, almost finishing the bottle. It was too much, but it felt right eating it.

It was like the mountains were imitating his ribs. Closing him in too tight. He couldn’t breathe. Second dry camp in a row too. Going to be some very, very thirsty people and aurochs tomorrow.

Polyclitus poked at a small fire. Usually they had a good sized bonfire just for sociability. Not tonight. Tonight it was a tiny little thing, with the saved firewood teamsters had brought with them into the pass. He looked up at Mazelton, who was sitting down next to him.

“Wondering about the dry camp?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t.”

Mazelton thought about it. It damn well looked like a dry camp to him.

“What am I not seeing?”

“You see how the slope drops away sharply over there?” He waved to his left. “Then the Mountain seems to shoot up again? Go over to the edge and take a look. Don’t get too close to the edge, mind you.”

Mazelton walked over and looked down. It wasn’t a sheer cliff. You would definitely bounce a couple of times on the way down. Adding insult to horrific injury, it wasn’t all that far down either. A couple of hundred feet at most. Then your hopefully dead body would be washed clean by the pretty little stream running along down there. Actually, if it looked like a stream from up here, it was probably a small river. Mazelton walked back to Polyclitus.

“I’m not filling the buckets.”

Polyclitus snorted. “Me neither.”

Mazelton just waited and made a little hole in the air. People always wanted to fill those little holes. He just had to wait.

“Eighteen and a half miles. That’s the number. That’s how far we travel tomorrow. Eighteen and a half miles. Lighter wagons, because everyone has drunk most or all their water. But more mistakes because people are dehydrated. Aurochs too. So tempers run short, people get headaches, or faint, or their muscles fail them at the absolute worst moment. Aurochs too.” Polyclitus snorted again.

“Which is damn bad, but here’s the thing, the reason that we are going so far tomorrow. It’s that river. What you see over there? It gets a bit closer, but not what you would call safe-close. Not until we get eighteen and one half miles further down the trail. And I do mean down. The reason that we didn’t push further today is that this is the last relatively flat bit for more than twenty miles. It’s all downhill from here, until we hit the big river. But in eighteen and a half miles, there is a bit that's flat-ish, there is a campsite there, and the river is only about sixty meters from the trail. On a slope that’s manageable for people with buckets, even.”

Mazelton thought about it.

“Steep grade?”

“What do you think?”

“I think there will be a lot of accidents tomorrow.”

“Me too.” Polyclitus looked over at Mazelton, the despair in his eyes was so deep, it had become hopeless resignation. “I did all I could at lunch. You have a better idea?”

Mazelton sighed too. You could only see the stars that were more or less directly overhead, but they were shockingly bright and crisp. Billions and billions, he thought. How many would count them tomorrow night?

The morning rose quietly, hidden behind the mountains. People were up and moving anyhow. There was no good way to do this. People checked their breaks, such as they were, and fixed them up as best they could. The breaks were… interesting. The truly broke, or those who somehow hadn’t learned from all the other steep hills, resorted to drag brakes. That is, they tied a big rock to the back of the wagon, and dragged it behind them. The extra friction would slow them down. Mazelton was privately of the opinion that the ropes might last one mile, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Polyclitus agreed, apparently, as for once, the crummiest wagons were made to go first.

Next were the more sophisticated drag brakes- basically a U shaped bit of wood or metal that went through the spokes of the back wheels and stopped them from turning. Mazelton winced when he saw them. They probably worked fine for a single long hill, but eighteen and a half miles? Those back wheels would be so screwed by the end of it, it wasn’t even funny. Maybe they would put them on and off again, only using them on the steepest part of the slope? But to hear Polyclitus describe it, there was only steep and steeper on offer.

After them were the first of the real brakes- friction brakes that pressed a block of wood (usually wrapped in some kind of hide or leather) to the outside of a wheel The block was pushed into the wheel by a long lever next to the driver. They were at the mercy of some very basic laws of physics today, and mechanical advantage was no small power.

Finally came the… it was probably wrong to describe them as “real” or “modern” since all the brakes were real, and a lot of these brakes were antiques. The brakes made by more advanced civilizations. Friction brakes that locked the axle. Brakes that geared their wheels in such a way that they could only turn more slowly. Mazelton’s wagon had its little repulsor ball, which apparently Duane could use to control, to a degree, their rate of descent. A large enough degree, apparently, as he just shrugged when Mazelton asked him about it.

Things got real religious as the first wagons started down. Prayer beads were counted at speed. Murmured, but very sincere, invocations of safety and protection offered. Down they went, one wagon after another, dragging their big stones behind them. Tearing up the trail as they went, but nobody had the guts to scold them for it. Mazelton could hear the screams as the first of the wagons to fall barely made it a hundred yards. He could hear the Auroch screaming. Briefly. He couldn't hear the family. But the wagons had to press on. They couldn’t even stop to gawk. The lack of water would start reaping lives soon, if it hadn’t already.

“I suddenly wish we could walk all the wagons down backwards.” Mazelton said quietly.

Duane just shook his head at that.

The morning went past. Fewer wagons fell than Mazelton thought. When it was time for his wagon to roll out, he learned better. They just hadn’t fallen where he could see them. Mazelton didn’t trust words like “right” or “fair.” He used them, but he didn’t trust them. The universe was spectacularly disinterested in “right” and “fair.” But it didn’t seem right and it wasn’t fair that the poorest folk living the hardest lives and riding in the cheapest wagons also died the most. He, a polisher of the ancient Ma Clan, descended the mountain in safety. Wasn’t even a bumpy ride.

There were no wagons to divide at the camp that night. There were some survivors, throwing themselves on the mercy of kin, or Coven mates, or strangers. They were the ones smart enough to walk alongside the wagon, and who were able to get clear inside the skin of the second where it all went wrong. Or the plain lucky, if you could call it luck. Mazelton’s ribs weren’t up to carrying buckets of water up a steep slope. He just had to watch folks grieve, then go around offering to purify the water. He didn’t say why. They all knew what was upstream.

That night, Mazelton got down to more serious sketching, working out what proportions would suit Danae. He didn’t know what styles she favored. Maybe she didn’t know either. He sketched some of the more popular styles in Old Radler, as he recalled village folk often envied the city’s finery. His pencil hovered over the page. Skin. She was always fully covered. It wasn’t some kind of Dusty edict that he knew of, even if they were pretty conservatively dressed. It was more practical. Nobody wanted a sunburn. Or sun cancer. Kept some of the flies off too. But this wasn’t supposed to be practical. Would she despise something that would be, to her, risque?

He started sketching a sleeveless number and quickly gave it up. It was too nerve wracking. He wanted her to love it, but he didn’t know what she liked. He kept picking up his pencil and putting it down again. He didn’t even dare to sketch it. He begged Farther Sun for strength, and Mother Moon for protection. The problem was just too big for him.