Mazelton sat at a table outside the enoteca and wrote out Widow Prum’s testimony in a neat hand. He then made a few suggestions based on his notes, a few changes to the rhythm of the piece, and once she was satisfied, wrote it a final time in the exacting script he was forced to learn for commercial correspondence. As someone who took pride in their letter writing, it was a bit painful.

Prum strode off towards the Sky Runners, and Mazelton just watched her go. He should probably drop by himself, but right now, he was just lost in the wonder of the canton. What was this place even called? This garden-village built along the bank of the river?

It was a wonder to a Old Radler boy. In Old Radler, very little was built new and for purpose. The city was an endless churn of tearing down and rebuilding or repurposing. An office tower became a vertical farm. A government building became homes, or shops, or both.

This village was intentionally built from scratch, each layer of it designed to produce food, shelter, firewood, some kind of useful good. The design ethos was ringing a bell, but a distant one. He saw brilliantly blooming flowers, tucked in next to tomato vines and cucumbers trellised up and over the street. It looked idyllic, but intensely practical. He wondered how it all held up under the snow. Those dirt covered roofs had to be heavy, right? Could they stand up to two meters of snow? Apparently so, since the village was still here.

Was New Scandi going to be like this? He didn’t think so, the plot map didn’t look much like this at all. He resolved to ask at the trade post, solving two problems at once.

The manager of the trade post made him briefly flash back to… oh what was their name? The manager of the general store he worked at in Sky’s Echo? No idea, completely forgot. Mazelton nearly slammed into the counter. He remembered where he saw that ecological design before- it was the sacred grove in Sky’s Echo. Same idea, just done on a municipal scale.

“Hi stranger! Welcome to Matte’s Landing. I’m Jl Aohnson, this is my shop.” The shopkeeper was almost offensively ordinary, of average height, unremarkable hair color, and worn work clothes that suggested that this was not their only job.

“Greetings br- I’m sorry, how do you pronounce your first name?”

“The way it’s spelled.”

“Thank you. Brother Aohnson, this may seem a silly question but, is your shop called Matte’s Landing, or is this canton called Matte’s Landing?”

The shopkeeper let out a bark of a laugh.

“Long time on the trail, huh? The Canton is Matte’s Landing. This shop is just called the Trading Post. Or Jl’s place, depending on if you are local or not.”

Once again the name slithered past his ears without registering in his brain. How was he making that sound? What sound was it, even?

“A long time indeed. I’m looking to swap polished cores for unpolished cores and information. Think we can make some trades?”

The shopkeeper grinned, missing a canine. “Reckon we can. Lots of timbering being done around here. Now- they are young trees, but there are an awful lot of them. What have you got?”

The dickering was kept friendly; both parties wanted a deal and both were great at chatting. It seemed that while low energy cores were abundant, high energy cores were rare. As for polished cores… so sorry, those have to come in by caravan, either from Cold Garden or up from Vast Green Isle. And the Sea Folk don’t sell theirs, and they aren’t wild about others bringing polished cores through their waters either.

The whole damn territory was wide open.

“What about coming up from the south? I know the Mattapan runs… what, half way down the continent? Big river.”

“Very big, though not that big. Did you know this is one of the narrowest spots on the whole river? Actually it isn’t nearly that long going north and south. It gets… eh, I don’t actually know how many miles south, a few hundred miles? Much less than a thousand, I’m sure. What makes it so long is that it sharply splits into an east branch and a west branch. East branch runs into the desert, the west branch into some mountains and so on. Good farming near a lot of the river, but… that’s about it. Folks who live there want to use the cores they got right where they are.”

“I didn’t know that, actually. And it just occurred to me that the Collective is down that way.”

“A good bit further south than you think, but yes. They hold a big piece of land south and west of here.”

“Well that’s fun.”

“The whole territory runs on the rivers. You can’t imagine how much snow we get up here, but the river stays flowing through all but the worst of the cold. In other words, we can trade for food from down south, where the growing season is longer.”

“Huh. What do you trade?”

“Oh, the usual. Timber, processed goods like furniture, harvested furs, that sort of thing. We try to be self-sustaining, as you might imagine.”

“Sure, sure.” Memo to self- check for the presence of Voyageurs.

“We are trying to build up the port, you know? Be a transit hub and, if we are very lucky, a shipyard. Did you know the Mattapan goes all the way down into the ocean, and it’s navigable most of the length?”

“I, uh…” Mazelton desperately tried to remember the map of the continent, and tried to trace the course of the river. They weren’t all that far from the headwaters of the Mattapan, which dropped almost due south before it turned sharply almost due west and, yes, there was that other river that split back to the east…

“It honestly never occurred to me, but you are absolutely right. It runs right out into Forquet Sound.”

“Hasn’t been Forquet Sound for a long, long time, friend. This century, we call it Gosling Sound. On account of all the geese that nest around there.”

“Sorry, one of those places I only know from books. It seems like everyone and their cousin builds a seaport or a naval base there.”

“Lots of strong rivers for hydro-power or to drive machinery, lots of inland access from those same rivers, mild climate, near unlimited amounts of timber and you are near some great farmland. It’s not paradise or anything- it’s grey and cool every day it’s not raining. But if you don’t mind a bit of damp, it’s amazing.”

“Sea Folk hold it?”

“More like… they don’t let anyone else use the Sound. And what’s worse, they aren’t consistent with it. They will make a big deal of saying “OK, you can go fish! Just send us a few tons of grapes, and you can fish for a year.” Then eight months later, all your boats blow up for no apparent reason.”

“Huh. On land, I’d think it was rival gangs trying to control turf.”

“But it’s the Sea Folk, so who knows.”

“Right. So… know anything about a place called New Scandie? It’s on what the locals are calling the Roaring River.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes half closed, clearly thinking. “Mmm. Haven’t had much trade with them. Small place, but all the cantons are. I think they have a sort of a similar set up to us, except with less of a connection to Gosling Sound and more of a straight shot down the river to Vast Green Isle. Which has to be… exciting.”

“Wait, the Sea Folk are moving that far inland?”

“No, not that. More just the general excitement of having to ship everything through their lines. Like I said, they are… inconsistent, these days. And trying to navigate the waters around Vast Green Isle without them is just suicide. Not because they do anything to kill you, just that the currents through there are all frigging terrifying, and every inch of shoreline is fronted by hidden rocks, shoals, underwater whirlpools and the like.”

“Never liked being a sailor. Didn’t work out for me.”

“You were a sailor?”

“Very briefly. And a supernumerary on a barge crew, too. Say, while I am here, what do you think would be a good wedding present for a farmer you don’t know well?”

“Hard to go wrong with a big, classy bowl. I have some if you want to take a look?”

He did not want to take a look. Instead, he took the long way around to the Sky Runners office. The piers were being lengthened a bit, which was no small job, but this particular bend of the river was just too narrow and shallow for a serious shipyard. Or a serious port, for that matter. Looked like there was a pretty well worn path going south along the river. Maybe they were going to focus development down river a bit, where it got wide again.

Not farming, not timbering, a port city. Port town, really. Supplementing and supporting that mission with what could be harvested locally. Interesting. A definite high risk, high reward move. Especially since, if it worked, they would become a priority target in any war.

Someone had put down quite a chess piece here. The great game was starting to move out of its opening phase. Soon it would be time to start trading pawns. Mazelton was acutely aware that right now, he was one of those pawns.

Of course, in chess and life, a pawn that lived long enough could see a king fall and feel a crown’s weight upon their brow. It took a bit of care, and not standing in the middle of the fight. But it was possible.

He didn’t want a crown. What Ma would? Always the Vizier, never the Emir, that was the trick.

The Sky Runners’ factor looked like he was cousins with the fellow back in Sky’s Echo, and probably was. The layout was pretty similar too, just with a much smaller selection of boards and jobs posted.

“Got any fliers from New Scandie?”

“Nope. There was a lot of business related to one of them a while back, but it’s dropped off recently.” The factor grinned. Mazelton had brought a lot of business to some pretty sleepy branch offices.

“Anything for places between here and there?”

“Thinking about a short haul cargo job?”

“Maybe. Mostly just want to see what’s being asked for.”

“Not a whole lot on your route, and the things that people do want aren’t stuff you can easily buy and ship here. Nobody here can sell you an anvil, for example. Or a fishing boat.”

“They can’t sell you a fishing boat?”

“Well, they can, but not one that you could haul over mountains in a wagon.”

“Fair point.”

“No idea what that guy was thinking. He lives up a mountain. And wants a fishing boat.”

“Maybe there is a lake?”

“So? Fishing boat. Mountain.”

“Fair. Anyone looking to buy cores?”

“Tribe always is. Insect shields have been real popular.”

“Well, I just sold out my current stock to… to the Trading Post, but by AMAZING coincidence, I have some time and unpolished cores. Cores that I could be persuaded to turn into insect barrier cores in exchange for more unpolished cores.”

“That is truly an astonishing coincidence. Especially since I have some cores from the mature growth forests down south, all of which would be much more valuable than the ones you can get locally.”

The two grinned at each other. It wasn’t a very nice grin, but that’s just how deals get made.

A couple of hours later and a handful of high energy cores richer, Mazelton returned to camp. He had picked up a few additional bits and bobs around town- restocked his hot sauce, refilled his little jar of oil, found some pretty nice wood for carving, that sort of thing. He had even found some nice cloth for the lining of the dress. So a definite win there. With a couple of hours left before dinner, Mazelton set to finishing his weapon.

He never knew what to call the blasted things except “weapons.” They weren’t “guns” exactly. They could be called “blasters” and had been, but he thought it sounded childish. Heat rays, that was another popular one. Phasers for a while, but that was just gibberish. The Clan merchants sidestepped the whole question by making up patently dumb terms for them.

“A keen eye, Madam. That is none other than the Model XE-47i, guaranteed to sear flesh at fifty yards, and on tight beam, boil the brain in the skull of your enemy at seventy five.”

“How gauche. What do you have in a precision weapon?”

“Apologies, Madam. We didn’t realize that you were an expert! Have a seat and a cup of tea. Comfy? This is the Furious Pilchard 973, Precision Elite Marksman Edition, with the tactical checked stock, integrated optical tactical scope and tactical swivel sling mounts…”

They literally just made names up. The bigger the sucker, the more the words “tactical,” “extreme,” and “brutal” appeared in the spiel. It drove Mazelton wild. He vividly remembered watching his mother sell the same model of weapon as three different models of weapons, just by presenting it with different names, different barrel color stain and a change in pattern on the stock.

People swore blind that the most expensive option shot better, was more accurate, they even complained that the trigger pull on the cheapest was mushy. On a fucking heat weapon! Oh, does the thing that opens the aperture for the radioactive beam not have a “glassy snap?” Does it fucking need one? Show me where you think there is a hammer or a firing pin on this weapon. Prick. Of course, only officers and aristocrats were even allowed the opportunity of purchasing the top of the line…

She got a small merit for clearing out the warehouse backlog on some third rate weapons. He remembered, vividly, Mother insisting that a local warlord had to buy two hundred of the “second tier” weapons before he qualified to buy fifty of the “Supreme Tier.” There was a waiting list if he wanted more than fifty, and of course, he had to buy the tier two weapons at the same 4:1 ratio to maintain his qualifications. Mother was always cold as hell.

Must have pissed off Father too. He never amounted to much in the Armaments Hall, but he took his work damn seriously. Mazelton could practically feel him radiating his disapproval as he shaped the patterns in the weapon, carving channels with the terribly fine structures that would let him turn a lump of radioactive metal into a high energy beam safely and reliably.

He finished up right around dinner. The idea for an adjustable frequency weapon had proven impractical. It was one size kills most. But no matter. The thing was a beast. It could melt through a steel plate at fifty yards. A pin sized hole, yes, but still. And it would utterly wreck any electronics inside, which was a plus, to say nothing of what it would do to people. Effective to one hundred yards… probably. He wouldn’t be winning any range competitions with the Collective, but for a portable heat weapon it was astonishing. And when a heat weapon hit, whatever it hit was dead. Right now, or later from radiation poisoning. Or cancer.

The best thing about it was that it was damn cheap to run. He carved a specialized core (and a couple of spares) to act as the radioactive heart of the machine, and slotted it into its cradle. The little holes around the chamber faintly drew in air, constantly and passively funneling it to and around the core. Bringing the heat back to the Black Sun. He wouldn’t have been able to make it a year ago. But now? Now he could melt the head clean off someone, and not pay for ammo.

It looked like a rifle, of course. Only so many good ways to aim something over that kind of range. Three points of contact and a cheek weld. Best he was going to do until dry-mind assisted targeting was a “thing” again.

Ah. Well. Until it was a “thing” for the sporting young polisher again. Strictly speaking, it never left, did it…

Dinner wasn’t bad at all. Cookie had found some plums that grew locally, titchy little things, but packed with flavor. The locals swore that they were best when pickled in salt and added to bland food for a burst of sweet, salty, sour flavor. The fresh plums were good. Maybe a last trip to the trading post was in order.

“Cookie, what’s this brown paste over here? I see you portioning it out like you were giving away your child.”

“Broad bean spread. Try some.” Cookie spread a bit on a cracker and, with visible reluctance, handed it to Mazelton. It started mellow, round and beany, but with some deeper, roasted flavor. Oil was in there, but not greasy, then trumpeting top notes of acid and herbs. It was goddamn fantastic.

“Why aren’t we making this all the time? It’s amazing!”

“Because it don’t keep, and the ingredients you need to make it don’t keep. Leastwise I’m not going to grind seeds for oil and paste after a day’s march on the trail.”

“You need oil? How much oil?”

“A few ounces per batch, but it’s the roasted ground seeds that add the backbone of the flavor. You can top it up with whatever you want, cause the beans will carry it, but it’s all just a disappointing mess without the ground seeds.”

Mazelton swore to investigate and obtain more of the stuff. He could feel the fat and protein leaping to work inside of him. He had precious little time to bulk up before he met Danae, and this could be the perfect thing.

After dinner, Mazelton decided to return to his creation of carved wooden ducks. He felt like trying something slightly… pointlessly hard.

The “correct” way to carve a duck might go something like this-

Draw a duck. Trace the drawing over the block of wood. Make sure you know what it’s going to look like from every side. Trace the rough shape of the duck on every side. Carve away all non-duck wood. Overlay again the finer details and rough out the next layer. Repeat until “done.” You have achieved one duck.

And there was nothing wrong with that. It was the standard because it worked. If you messed up, you found out about it fast, and you wasted the least amount of time on a piece that wouldn’t turn out right. Be pretty messed up if you spent two days carving the legs, then put your chisel right through where the neck would need to go.

So he was going to do just that- the dumb thing. Carve purely from imagination and memory and try to bring the duck out of the wood “alive.” Each piece finished before moving to the next. There was no reason to think the end result would look any better. He just wanted to do it. So he sat by the fire, and started carving.

He mostly listened with half an ear to the conversations around him. After all these months, he had heard every story, knew every wrinkle of their lives they were willing to share, and was able to deduce quite a bit more. He had grown fond of these teamsters. He might not remember their names, but he was fond of them.

“What… uh, is that?”

“I’m carving a duck.”

“So, that’s like, a foot?”

“Yes.”

“Um.” The teamster looked worried but curious. “Why are you carving a duck?”

“I wanted to make a wedding present.”

“A wooden duck?”

“Well, I plan to carve a bunch of them. Make it a little flock of ducks. It’s been pretty fun, seeing all the different kinds of ducks along the way.”

“You have been watching the ducks?”

“I mean, what else was there to do?”

That met with some silence.

“Not going to lie, I thought you would do something terrible with that severed head you had in a bag.”

“He was!” Polyclitus took the opportunity to jump in. Mazelton groaned, and tried to focus on the duck.

Tomorrow they would be crossing the river, and heading back into the mountains. Almost home. Duane looked at him across the fire and said “Shoes.”

“I think my boots are fine?”

“Cheves.”

Mazelton thought it through.

“You think I should get shoes put on my cheves? Iron shoes are pretty expensive, right?”

Duane nodded, and left it at that. Whelp. Guess he was adding an early morning visit to the farrier. Duane wouldn’t have mentioned something unless it was important.

That night, Mazelton dreamed of taking a little duck sculpture and flying it around in front of a laughing baby as Danae looked on, smiling. The house was bright and warm, and the only noise was laughter. And the “Quack” of a happy dad.