He was being frozen out by the Collective again. Mazelton had never been popular there, but at least he was allowed to purify the water barrels… some water barrels… sometimes. Now it was right back to the angry young men telling him to scram, with lots of quiet eyes watching. He shrugged. He scrammed. The caravan had stopped next to a largish pond, a bit green for his comfort, well shaded by broad leafed trees. No ducks, alas, but you can’t have everything.

He lined his hand up with one of the spiky, wide leaves. He had gotten a bit thinner again, but not too badly. He wasn’t short on rations, it was just the constant physical exertion wearing him down. He would have to spend more time in the wagon and just learn to tolerate the jolting. Maybe he could make a cushion? He dropped the leaf. Cushion wouldn’t stop you from slamming a foot to the side when the wheel went over a rock.

Dinner was filling, if bland. Lentils boiled with salt and seaweed, some dried vegetables stewed with water and thickened with a bit of flour. Really, not bad at all, as camp meals went. The vegetables were something he hadn’t seen before, so that was fun. “Fun.”

He missed booze. And drugs. Narcotics were a game to the youngsters of the great clans. It was practically a given that any member of the main line would have some degree of inherited resistance to poisons, so they would come up with their own signature blends to get around their own resistances, or the resistances of others. Mazelton was no alchemist, but sometimes, mixing the little powders together then watching them dissolve into high test apple wine, he felt like one.

Sweet, a bit tart, the drink almost rolling down your tongue, the POP POP POP of the narcotics adding subtle bitterness or acidity to the fruit and sugar of the wine. Then the swallow, feeling that touch of burn from the alcohol as it made its way down your throat and into your belly. Then the exhale, the flavors reviving and evolving as the air flowed over your tastebuds. Sometimes the best taste could only be experienced in the exhale, watching the little flowers float away on your breath.

All that, and the drugs hadn’t even kicked in yet. But that kind of thing could get you killed on the trail, and he couldn’t afford it anyhow, so it didn’t matter how much he missed it.

Speaking of the Xia, who was that little fatty… Xiaponti? Bragged about a chain of secret suppliers for a Xia clan chain of food stalls when Mazelton picked the chemical locks in his kidneys. As far as he knew, the Ma never acted on that tidbit, but he felt very proud to be able to report it. Like a kid with his damn first skull, waiting to be praised.

They could have let him keep some of them. Or even just one. Not that it mattered now.

Bet Xiaponti’s family kept his skulls. Probably in intricately carved cedar boxes, swindled from the family of the person the head used to belong to, given that they were Xia. Creepy bunch. Not that it mattered now.

He sighed and turned for his comfy tent. If he was this morbid after dinner, best he just went to sleep.

“Ah, Mazelton, glad I caught you before bed.” Mendiluze strode up, intercepting him just shy of safety.

“I was hoping you could explain your weapon to some of our weaponsmiths. I know you said that it couldn’t be used by non-polishers, but they are quite creative.”

“I appreciate your, and their, interest, but I must decline. The Collective have made it very clear that I am unwelcome in their midst, and I would hate to trouble them.”

Mendiluze frowned.

“Surely you understand…”

Mazelton shook his head repeatedly.

“Nope, no I don’t. We discussed this. I do not understand. I do not care to understand people that do not care to understand me. To put it in terms that I know we both understand- Scram.”

And he went to bed, determined to let that be the end of it.

The next morning saw a cluster of very large veterans looming around Polyclitus, as Mendiluze spoke in a slow, calm manner to him. Polyclitus was likewise calm, but clearly didn’t care for what he was hearing. A number of beefy teamsters drifted over. The veterans didn’t look impressed. This went on for some while, until they scattered like an unhappy dandelion. Polyclitus sounded the drum to advance, and once the wagons were well underway, sent someone to bring Mazelton up to his wagon.

“So, reckon you saw me having it out with Mendiluze this morning?”

“Yep. Wants you to order me to explain how my heat weapon works so they can make their own knockoffs, right?

“More or less.”

“And you pointed out the whole meeting we had the other day about how I am technically an independent contractor, and “Teaching the Collective how heat weapons work” is not in my contract?”

“That too. Although it’s arguable, given the “all necessary aid” clause.”

“Sure. Want to argue it? I got all day. Months, even.”

Polyclitus gave Mazelton a dirty look.

“I don’t. They will pay you.”

“How much?”

“Fifty rads…”

“They can get fucked.”

“And a big jar of lemons preserved in salt.”

“Are they free at lunch?”

“So the first thing to know about this weapon is that it is not a good weapon. Think of it like your slug throwers- technically you could use almost any kind of barrel, and any sort of accelerant and any sort of slug, trigger, all that, but some things are definitely going to work better than others.”

This was met with flat stares. The weaponsmiths looked like they begrudged every breath of air they took in his presence.

“So this was not built out of purpose built parts and made by someone who was trained in weapon making. Well, beyond the basics. It was made by me, out of stuff I could find cheap or free in Sky’s Echo, in the back of a shop after work. Which I guess would make it easier for you to make, but…”

Mazelton shrugged and started taking the weapon apart.

“Long barrel here, because I don’t have any good way of focusing the beam. I am pretty much relying on the scattering only happening in a narrow cone as I keep the barrel trained on the target. The beams bounce around inside of the barrel and hopefully leave the barrel moving in a more or less straight line away from the heat source.” He passed it around, letting people look down the smooth, highly polished interior.

“Which leads me to the heat source. Nothing fancy or purpose built, just core dust, about two drams. Although the weight is misleading, I am really looking at how much heat it’s putting out when I measure out the sachets.” Mazelton held up the little paper envelopes. “The weight might be the same in two batches, but the heat content could be very different. And since I am not a professional weaponsmith, I am very much eyeballing quantities.”

This was met with grim disapproval from the very much professional weaponsmiths.

“So this is the part where I explain why I can’t teach you how to make these weapons, even though every material part of this is something you could probably make in your sleep. Call it the trigger.” Mazelton waved at the stock of the gun.

“There isn’t one. Basically I use my own core to excite the heat inside the dust, making it all release in a second or two as opposed to months or longer. It’s the sudden burst of energy that pushes the heat out in enough quantity to be dangerous. I don’t know of a mechanical way to do that. All the ways I do know of to do that involve a polisher consciously and intentionally directing their heat into a weapon to make it work.” He shrugged.

“Remember how I said that this was a bad weapon? Well you can see for yourself how it would be slow to reload, the sachets are frankly dangerous to transport, it’s not accurate, and since I don’t know how to make the control cores that a real heat weapon uses, I have to consciously control the flow of heat through me as I am trying to aim and not die all at the same time.”

That got some reluctant nods.

“I made it because, well, I’m a polisher.” Mazelton shrugged. “Relying on a sling just seemed silly.”

Mazelton was not invited to purify the food and water of the Collective that evening, and he didn’t care a single bit. The lemons were delicious. Sumac was good, but this was like distilled sunshine. He absolutely loved it. Maybe he should make a heated greenhouse for Danae? She would love that, he was sure. Get some seeds shipped up the coast, plant some trees in pots… hmm. She said it snowed a lot. You would need very thick glass or some kind of clear, strong resin. A lot of it. Bigger HMMs. Maybe dig a hole for insulation, like Jerry? Terry? Whatshisname from Sky’s Echo. Dig a big hole, insulate it, then roof it with glass. Make a heater out of some cores and some old clay pots. Yeah, that could work. Get year round lemons. And oranges.

Dusty World, oranges! He had an orange once, just once, on Grandfather’s sixtieth birthday banquet. His table got an orange each for dessert. Which was better than some! If not as good as the higher tables. Maletan was a pretty decent Table Chief. Always fought hard for them, and managed to punch above his weight in the clan. Bit of an inspiration, now that he thought about it, Ælfflæd guide his passing. Kind of an optimistic nihilist. “We’re all worm food in the end, so do the best you can right now. Enjoy life. And I will break your damn arms if you keep putting your elbows on the table, young Mazelton!” He would have made a great Dusty.

Polyclitus insisted that the correct way to use the lemons was to scrape away all the flesh, mince up the rind and stir that into whatever you wanted to season. Polyclitus was a damn fool- the flesh added a huge burst of sweet, salty acid to whatever it was put in, and since everything was painfully bland, that was a good thing. Maybe not if he was in the city, but on the trail? Delicious.

That night, he sketched a below ground greenhouse. He hadn’t the faintest idea if it was at all realistic or plausible, but he had an awful lot of fun designing it. He imagined having arguments with Danae over what should grow where. Would Luanne know that kind of thing? She would probably know who would know, at least, she seemed to get along well with most of the Dusties, or at least most of the Dusty womenfolk. Hmm. Humble Bissette seemed to be struggling too. Something up there? Ah, no, peaches! He would worry about how to grow peaches in the snow, and ignore tomorrow.

Morning found Mazelton well rested and reasonably cheerful. So cheerful, that he actually looked up from his bowl and watched the caravan pull itself together. It was a huge process. Even after seeing it every day for weeks, it was astonishing that it all came together. Each wagon had to pack up its tents, clean up the camp site, bury any latrines (if they were fancy) or just not step in any recently covered holes (if they were not), collect the aurochs, brush the aurochs, hitch the aurochs, make sure everything was squared away and accounted for, everyone was squared away and accounted for, water barrels refilled if possible, wagon pulled into line… every morning and after lunch. And every step of the process had sub steps, each of which had to be done correctly and in order, or the whole thing fell apart.

Take hitching the aurochs. Most people had aurochs, so most people had to hitch their aurochs to their wagons. The big beasts had been hobbled and let out to graze overnight, so they had to be brought in, often by the children. The beasts were called by name, instructed to follow, and gently tapped on the shoulder with long sticks. Not to hurt them, never that! The taps were directions- in front of the shoulder ment go faster, behind was slow down and stop.

The aurochs were brought next to the wagon and brushed thoroughly. Keeping them clean and free of ticks helped avoid sores and kept the animals healthy. The aurochs liked the grooming. It felt really nice. So every time they were groomed, they were groomed next to the wagon. That way if they panicked or ran off, they would run off somewhere they felt safe. Next to the wagon.

The auroch would obediently stand while wooden U shaped collars were draped over their necks. One arm of the U had holes drilled into it. Then the yoke was fetched from where it spent the night (often in the wagon to keep it dry and free from rot) and slid up the neck of one auroch, just before the shoulder. It was turned sideways so the hardware didn’t catch on the animal’s neck as the teamster (or child, as the case may be) slides it across one auroch’s neck and over the other’s. The U shaped collars were then turned right way up and slid into the holes in the yoke. A wooden spacer was slid over the arm with the holes in it, then a peg was inserted into a hole to lock the yoke in place. The same process was repeated on the other aurochs in the team. They would then get another little bit of brushing just for being good and staying still for their harnessing.

The team would be led over to the tongue of the wagon. This was achieved, again, by calling their names and giving them instructions. By now, being hitched to the wagon in the morning was a comforting routine for the aurochs, so they were happy to obey. It’s not like you could force them, not without a great deal of suffering. Mostly your own. Gentle words and gentle touches. The great beasts would line up on either side of the tongue, steered by body position and the taps of the stick or verbal commands. One auroch would daintily step over the tongue. The teamster or child would then lift the tongue and run it through a hoop on the bottom of the yoke, making sure the hoop touched the stop sticking out of the bottom of the tongue. A thick hawser, or a chain if the waggoner could afford such a luxury, was attached by a hitch or a hook from the back half of the tongue all the way up to the yoke. This provided the power for the wagon, the force that would pull it across mountains and rivers.

The driver’s job was mostly to keep an eye on the road ahead- the actual steering was done by the person walking up front with the auroch. When they walked, the auroch walked. When they stopped, the auroch stopped. Left and right turns had to be carefully orchestrated with taps, body positions and verbal commands. After all, the auroch on the inside of the turn had to slow down while the Auroch on the outside had to speed up. Every turn was a matter of serious coordination.

So picture all that, and imagine hundreds of people doing it twice a day, every day, for months, and if they screwed it up even once, the results could be fatal. For example, if you didn’t tighten your hawser or chain enough, the tongue could slip out of the hoop on the yoke and spike into the ground. The yoke would still be attached to the tongue, however, so the aurochs would still be pulling the wagon. The image of a boar impaling itself on a spear comes to mind. Well that was actually pretty unlikely. What was much more likely was that the tongue would break.

You did pack an extra two meter long length of seasoned, polished and oiled wood in your wagon, right? Your very full, very heavy, wagon? No? Well. Good luck.

Some of the wagons didn’t even have a box for the driver- that is, a bench at the front for them to sit on. The driver was just the person at the front, with the aurochs.

Luanne was often the driver. Sometimes it was her brothers, pretty much everyone but the Humble and her husband would take a turn, but it was quite often Luanne. She seemed to have a knack for it. Maybe it was just that she didn’t make random moves. Auroch famously dislike fast moving objects.

Four auroch team on the Humble’s wagon. Bigger wagon than most, too. Not too much of a problem because they would only be going to the foothills of the Western Ramparts, but… interesting. On the one hand, he really didn’t need to know what was making all that heat in their wagon. Not his business, really. On the other hand, he did want to know. And he was getting a little tired of the way all the food sacks were so neatly laid over all the boxes inside the wagons, so he couldn’t easily snoop.

Oh sure, he could just ask, but where would be the fun in that? Mazelton grinned into his tea, and enjoyed the sight of somebody else working hard.