Fort Muddy Waters was the definition of a place that had no business being deathly strategic, but was. Every known epoch had a fortress there, or a city, or some sort of stronghold. The prospecting was nearly as lucrative as it was dangerous, as the ambient heat was enormous and the structures thoroughly rotten.

Muddy Waters was well named. It sat (this epoch, at any rate) at the intersection of two rivers. The smaller, the Ashbourne, ran west-northwest, terminating in the vast freshwater lakes to the north. There were already active fisheries, to say nothing of the timber industry, and a good amount of the farm produce ran on barges along it. It wasn’t a vital corridor yet, but everyone could tell it would be a booming route soon. The other river, the Bloodbourne, already was.

The Bloodbourne ran from the White Sea in the far north all the way down to the grass desert in the middle of the continent. Outside it’s floodplain was bitterly dry, scratching, tearing, desert grasses and gorse. Ticks and biting flies made their homes there in almost impossible numbers. The contrast with the Bloodbourne floodplain was just too dramatic. Lush, soft grasses. Wildflowers that seemed to bloom the second you looked away in explosions of pale blues and yellows and coral. Trees were sparse, but wide and shady. Was the farming good? It was said that a man once tried to build a log cabin, but the timber all took root and he had to make a treehouse instead.

The Bloodbourne river wasn’t just farmed, it was densely farmed. The enormous fisheries in the White Sea packed their catches in salt and shipped them south, cores carefully removed and stored in insulated chests. Huge quantities of grains and legumes made their way north, faintly glowing with vermin extermination cores. Going both ways were specialty tools, luxuries, people. The money was enormous. Simply enormous. As was the power and the interests it touched. The Ashbourne and the Bloodbourne weren’t named as such by accident. Many times an epoch, every epoch, someone decided that they really needed to be the one in control of Muddy Waters, and they didn’t care how high the bodies were stacked after they tried conclusions with the current owners.

The caravan would stop for one day, to rest, resupply, and bring in new members. Some people, a small percentage, would quit the caravan and try to settle here. Most couldn’t quit even if they wanted to.

Muddy waters was the last big outpost before the high plains. It was packed with hotels, restaurants, and every sort of outfitting and general goods store your heart could desire… so long as you desired your choice of three hotels, five general goods stores (two owned by the same person) and one of the restaurants was closed on account of “Ma’s foot is doing that again.” After a month of trekking through pine forest and swamp, it looked like paradise. Clapboard houses and wooden sidewalks, wood shingled roofs in varying states of repair, and roads that were a fifty/fifty blend of mud and animal dung. Paradise.

Mazelton made a beeline for the best hotel he could afford and a hot bath. To his immense disappointment, Muddy Waters did have a polisher in residence. A small family of them, in fact. Recharging the cores was only worth a basic room and dinner, breakfast would be extra, alcohol extra, laundry extra, bath extra, maid service extra. Grumbling immensely, Mazelton restrained himself to one small glass of grape wine, the laundry service and the bath. He would decide on breakfast tomorrow morning.

He debated over the maid service for a while. On the one hand, it had been… Ælfflæd forgive him, it had been more than six months since he last lay with a lover. And while bloodlines were of critical importance to the Ma, marital exclusivity wasn’t. On the other hand, he really didn’t have much money to spend, and the maid surely wouldn’t take payment in trade. On the other other hand, Danae was a Dusty, and they were monogamous. And on the fourth hand, he was supposed to be a Dusty too, so that probably meant monogamy for him too. Humble Dougal had been very insistent that “engaged to be married” counted.

Mazelton stripped and threw his clothes in the laundry basket and himself on top of the bed. The duvet was soft and stuffed with dense cotton. The sheets under it were linen, smelling faintly of soap and sunshine. The mattress was stuffed with cotton as well, held up by a rope net and the wooden frame of the bed. It felt divinely soft. He could feel himself melting into a little puddle of a person, incapable of moving or escaping the bed. One particular part of him disagreed, and made a bid for the ceiling.

Hand on his heart, he was horney enough to fuck a tree and father the next generation of Ælfflæd. Beating out every other reason for or against calling the maid… he was just too damn tired. Mazelton groaned, rolled out of bed and into a towel. The laundry bag went outside his door, he went to the bath, and out of sheer spite soaked for an entire hour. Reeking of lavender, Mazelton fell face forward into bed and slept the sleep of those too tired to sin.

The hotelier was a decent sort. Since Mazelton had skipped dinner, he comped breakfast and only charged him a bit extra for the double portions. Bread with jam never tasted so good, along with sweet oats simmered in soy milk and sprinkled with finely minced dried fruit and toasted pumpkin seeds. A heavyset man joined him at the table uninvited.

“Terry Pulkowski, nice to meetcha!” Below the mustache, the chubby man was smiling. Above the mustache, he was not. There were no secret handshakes for polishers. They knew their own.

“Mazelton. I heard there was a family of polishers here. I guess I am making their acquaintance?”

“Yep. Just wanted to say howdy. Toma tells me you just stayed the night?”

“Mmm. Part of the caravan to the Disputed Territory. Going to settle out that way.”

Terry whistled, eyes lighting up.

“Long haul. Need any supplies while you are here?”

“Could always use more wood pulp and bamboo. I expect they will be in short supply soon.”

“You know it. Sure, I got plenty, I can let you have some cheap. Don’t suppose you would be willing to trade patterns?”

“Can’t. You know how it is.” Mazelton shook his head.

“I do. Not sure you do though.”

“Oh?”

“Mazelton. Which means Ma clan. Headed west, which means that you’re fleeing Old Radler. I reckon that might be of interest to some folk. I reckon that might be very interesting to quite a lot of folk, actually.”

Mazelton sipped his warm soy milk with steady hands.

“Except that I am actually from Lone Pine, and have the family registry to prove it. Big family. And if you think that wouldn’t be persuasive, well, you might be right, but think about it this way.”

He set down the bowl.

“The Ma of Old Radler decided to butcher everyone, including themselves rather than cut a deal or play nice. Are you one hundred percent certain you want to try something? With your family so close at hand?”

Mazelton’s smile didn’t reach his eyes either.

“You’re all alone out here, Ma. You are no one! I am an important man around here. It would take nothing, nothing, to make you disappear. You will leave your patterns or your core.”

Terry’s lips hardly moved. The room was full of people, and no one heard them speak. He didn’t look pleased at Mazelton’s panting laugh in reply.

“Oh please, threaten me more. I crawled out of a mess of corpses before I was twelve and was hanging skulls by the time I was fifteen. I was a late bloomer. Some bumblefuck nowhere family of half assed polishers can make me disappear? I will stack bodies higher than my head and I guarantee that nothing will grow for ten years where I fall. Test me.”

Terry saw something in Mazelton’s eyes and shoved his chair back.

“Don’t wait for the wood. If I catch you in town again, consequences be damned, I’m going to make my move.”

Mazelton made the bird of farewell and bowed with exquisite politeness.

“Go in peace, brother. I am sorry, my clan doesn't eat flesh, but I am happy to hear the town accepts your ways.”

Mazelton’s voice was just loud enough to carry to the next table. He strode off to settle up with the Hotelier before Terry could make a reply. He felt eyes burning into his back all the way back to the wagons. Once they were on the road he had a quiet word with Polyclitus about maybe setting a better watch for the next few nights.

They were two days out of Muddy Waters and still in the farm belt around the city. Winters came early and left late up here, but you could still squeeze out two crops or more, with care. It was a cereal grower’s paradise. Mazelton had never seen so much wheat, barley, rye, millet, emmer. Grains he didn’t even have names for were growing in an abundance he could scarcely believe. The fields were in a strict grid system, with each property line marked. Some farmers marked the edges of their property with little totems, or plaques of the family name. Others hung wards and sigils on their barns.

Mazelton felt the hairs on his neck rise as he saw iconographs for Thorn and Ruin reversed against Growth Unimpeded on the wall of a barn. Or the house with the Star of Fertility painted in lucky green on the roof. Nobody else seemed to understand what they were seeing, one idiot child even asking his mother “Can we paint stars on our house?”

No you cannot, not unless you are willing to spill a lot of blood or swallow a LOT of Ælff smoke. Not unless you want to be turned into someone else’s sacrifice. All the farms had at least a couple big trees on them too- some with brightly colored cloth braids wrapped around them.

One of the local farm kids was jogging alongside the wagons, a wicker basket of cabbages strapped to his back. Mazelton waved him over.

“Cabbage mister? Early spring crop, as crisp and sweet as you ever had.” Bright eyes and bright teeth, oh the Ælfflæd must love him. Poor kid.

“I’ll take six. How much?”

“Six rad!”

Ah yes, clearly Ælff touched. This was tricky, he really couldn’t afford to offend the local Ælfflæd, so far from home.

“One rad, and this.” He offered the small core and a small bottle. “Liquid of Liaccre. Two drams. A drop or two on the fire will go a very long way. Glory to the Shadows of the Forest.”

The bottles and the rad vanished, and the cabbage were duly handed over.

“Soft loam silence your steps, and may the loins of your enemies birth horrors.” The child smiled in reply.

Mazelton hopped back on the wagon with a little smile. Nice area. He would be very generous with his sacrifice tonight. Just polite.

Oh hell. Did that idiot Terry think he could sic the locals on him? Mazelton chuckled, and dug out a few choice cores. He then caught back up with the local boy, asked a few pertinent questions, and an hour later, called in at a house warded with Tree, Bird and Snake. A few more cores were delivered, along with the last of Mazelton’s tiny supply of incense. A bargain was struck.

The Brandwealder of the steading slit her palm and bled into a bowl under the enormous Maple that shaded her house. The keening song was lost under the noise of the caravan, but that was fine. The Ælfflæd could hear it just fine. When his part was called, Mazelton joined her harmony and added his blood to the bowl. The fire in his blood surged and his call echoed through the thin membrane humanity called “The World,” stirring up those who lived as shadows and shapes in the light. Calling the Ælfflæd to come, warm themselves in the tree, and feast on the offerings. The two then smeared the tree with their blood and peed on the name Pulkowski.

And that should be the end of that, Mazelton reckoned. Not enough to kill Terry and his family, of course. The Brandwealder wouldn’t agree to that, and he couldn’t offer a big enough sacrifice anyway. But for the next two moons, the Pulkowski family was in for a rough time. And the locals wouldn’t be touching Mazelton either, given the power of his call. Profit was one thing. Living long enough to enjoy it was another. The Brandwielder sent him off with a freshly baked loaf and her best wishes on starting a new life somewhere far, far away.

He had to run hard to catch up with Duane, but he was grinning the whole time. He might not be a very good Dusty, and he definitely wasn’t some Ælffson, but damned if he couldn’t make the two work together.

Mazelton was extra generous with his blood offering that night, and slept like a babe. When he woke, he knew that Terry had shattered a core he was carving, and rats had peed in his flour. What a lovely start to the day.

They were still seeing the occasional farm four days out from Muddy Waters. They were small homesteads, not the big cereal farms closer to town. The houses were a bit ramshackle, but the gardens exploded with life. The land was so damn fertile. The caravan stopped for the night by a big bend in the Ashbourne, and the little cluster of willows by the riverside were so senic it shouldn’t be legal. They brushed the water with their long tendrils, caressing it with tender spring leaves and shading the fish hiding under the river bank. Mazelton went to quietly pay his respects as soon as he could.

The cluster from the Leoinidas started playing music and singing their folk songs. Songs about farmers and hunters and the curious marriage of a frog and a mouse. They hadn’t exactly warmed to Mazelton, nor he to them, but they were less openly hostile. He, in turn, was prepared to admit that the old bastard playing the unlikely collection of wires and wood was pretty good at his hobby. It made a nice background as he made his rounds. More people were willing to get their food and water purified, but there were still precious few willing to buy cores.

Ah well. At least he could sell them the recharging for the cores and stones they did have. Just a bit of income, but every little bit helps. His teamster minders had gotten very used to the whole thing. While most folk didn’t care to socialize with Mazelton, they were downright chatty with the teamsters.

It hurt a bit. Not that he wanted these dirt farmers yakking his ear off, but it would have been nice to be the one making that decision. He was a Hurricane Lily, night blooming, sought by many. He was, at his heart, a social creature, not meant to blossom alone.

He sighed a bit over that, as he frugally sprinkled his beans with salt and dried herbs. Still wished they had some oil. He knew that plenty of folk in the wagon train added dried fish to their stews, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wasn’t quite at the point of eating carrion anymore.

The river of stars was coming in bright tonight, all the busy flecks of light criss crossing the sky below it. All the little planets humanity had tossed up into space over the years, accumulating, crashing into each other and then, eventually, the atmosphere. Nobody, well nobody that Mazelton knew of, had managed a safe launch this epoch. All the wonders locked under the shining cities in the Moon remained hidden away. There were myths of humans living beyond the stars, but they were just that- myths.

“If they were really there, wouldn’t they have come back to see us? Just to check in?” Mazelton wondered. “How could you just cut ties with kin like that?”

He lay on his back for a long while, looking up at the busy night sky, wondering where everybody went.

Mazelton woke the next morning to a rapping on his tent. Another case of the flux had broken out, and the family wanted him to run over and purify the wagon.