Chapter 11: What is the Worst That Could Happen?

Mazelton staggered to a cheap doss house the Humble recommended. No private rooms, but real beds and plenty of vermin cores to charge in exchange for a night’s sleep. His head swum with new ideas, frothing the mental waters as they struggled against the current occupants. He was no stranger to unapproved marital relations, to put it very mildly. But there were accepted ways for those sorts of things to happen, and none of which involved the word marriage. Which did force the question-

Why was he so stuck on this? Really, who cared? He was looking for a place to hide and live out a quiet exile. Someplace safe and welcoming. Not looking for a new family.

Mazelton stared at that thought for a moment, and then thoroughly puzzled the clerk by gently, but repeatedly, banging his head on the door frame.

 

Mazelton stared at the polished bit of plastic in front of him, polished to such a sheen that he could see his own reflection. Useful for a man drawing a self portrait. He always liked to use a bit of charcoal or graphite for the initial sketch, only reaching for the brush when he had everything set just so in his mind.

His reflection looked leaner. Almost skeletal, because there wasn’t much extra flesh on Mazelton to begin with, and he had missed a lot of meals the last few months. The carefully shaved and parted hair, so fashionably blurring the lines of gender, had grown into a hideous mess. Not a strong look in Old Radler. Not a strong look in Sky’s Echo either. Going to need to apply some creativity there. Patchy stubble- the men of the Ma clan always had patchy facial hair. Uncle Malelio’s mustache was much admired, with it’s sharp lines sweeping down and out like a company of pikes protecting his nostrils.

Father looked handsome when he and Uncle Malelio were together. The thin, smooth face leaning against the rounder, bushy face. Something seemed to unknot in his father and all the ugly lumps smoothed out. Uncle did that for people. Mazelton always wished he could do the same.

Should he imagine a mustache on himself? The charcoal blurred, then was quickly rubbed away as best as he could manage. No mustache.

His hands were as long and delicate as ever. They didn’t look any stronger. If anything, they too were more skeletal. His arms and legs were as leanly muscled as before, except, again, there was a bit less of him. His stomach muscles showed clearly, but he knew perfectly well that it was too many missed meals, not fitness, that made them pop. Mmm. Did women prefer meatier men? He knew that way down in the long archipelago anchoring the southern end of the Eastern Edge, a nice little belly was considered a sign of prosperity. Boys going courting would give each other tips on how to puff out their guts to lure in partners.

On the other hand, people from the southern archipelago were famously leg biting crazy. No extra belly, but add two stone overall. Better. Still need to fix the eyes. Right now he looked like he was watching two colonies of ants fighting with contempt. Mazelton smoothed out his forehead and tugged the corners of his eyes over a smidge. There. Serious looking, but a face you wanted to make smile.

The final result could be titled “Mazelton in Happier Times.” It was good. It was also the first drawing he had made since he fled Old Radler.

Wait, was sending a nude some kind of social blunder?

Mazelton looked in the mirror, stricken.

Maybe start with a letter.

 

To The Landholder Okempi, Dear Danae, Dear Ms/Miss/Honorable/Maiden/Widow/BrandWielder/OneWhoWalksInFireAndShadow

How in the actual hell does one start a courting letter? Dear seemed safe enough, but this Danae creature wasn’t any such thing yet. And what was her cultural background? Some people would take deathly offense if you called them the wrong thing, but she didn’t indicate how she expected to be addressed. Well, other than identifying her gender, but that only went so far.

Skip the intro, press on. To whom it may concern? No, nope, skip on to the body. Mazelton took a deep breath to collect himself, and tried to fix the image of the letter in his mind. He picked up his writing brush, dipped it in the ink, and began.

 

I am the Man Mazelton, late from the great cities of the Eastern Edge and looking to establish myself…

Ooof. No. No leading with “So I am from an exterminated branch of the Ma Clan and am being hunted.” Not a strong start.

I am the Man Mazelton, a Hurricane Lilly blown west and looking to fix his roots in new earth. By trade I am a core polisher, and am possessed of my own tools, my own legacy and a…

“A” what, exactly? And does she even know what a Hurricane Lilly is? Probably not. Definitely not, she’s a dirt farmer in the middle of nowhere. Start again.

I am the Man Mazelton.

Safe start, introduce who you are, how you identify and how to address you. Also establish that you are relevant to the request- Hey! Lead in!

I saw your advertisement and-

How honest is too honest? Eh.

Was quite startled by it. I am leaving the Clans of the Eastern Edge, to come west and build a new life. Negotiating a marriage is new to me. Let me say then that I am twenty two years old, a Dusty, am of sound body and mind and have my own trade. I am a core polisher, possessed of my own tools and legacy, and fully trained on most ordinary cores and a few not so ordinary ones. Attached is a picture I drew of myself. It is a good likeness, I think. I did draw myself dressed,

Or at least I will have done by the time I send this letter-

But if that is considered fraudulent or some kind of suspicious concealment, I can send a nude as well. As I said, I am new to this sort of thing.

As to walking hard roads, I have no earthly idea what is hard or soft anymore. I worked my way to Sky’s Echo, have known hunger and sickness, have known both the cruelty of friends and the kindness of strangers. I wonder if I still do see the beauty in the world. I certainly did, once. No, I am too dramatic. There was a funeral the day I arrived at Sky’s Echo, and the laughter, the joyous community and the celebration of life was surely beautiful.

As for what I am looking for in a marriage- in a word, stability and connection. I want somewhere and someone to call home. I have looked at the plot map pinned up at the Thousand Bird Sangha’s offices here, and I note that Plot Twelve is still available, tucked as it is between your Plot Ten and the river. (Has anyone named the river yet? I haven’t been able to find a name for it, but surely it has one.) For my own peace of mind, I would purchase my own bit of land, so I had something to call my own if our marriage didn’t succeed. On the other hand, I would also like us to live together, so the plot adjoining yours appeals. Of course, I would need an easement to cross your land to reach my plot, if I got Plot Twelve.

And it only took the scumbag sales-monk twenty minutes to explain the concept of an easement. Progress!

Frankly, one year feels short, and I worry that you will never want children. Could you explain your thoughts on that a bit more? Also would you provide a picture of yourself as well? Nude or clothed, I don’t have a bias either way.

How do you end a courting letter? I thought starting it was the hard bit!

Winter comes fast, and I don’t know how much correspondence we can manage before I leave for New Scandi in the spring. Still, I do hope that when I join that caravan, I will hold an accepted offer in my hand. I hope that I will not be heading away from Sky’s Echo, but towards home.

    In All Sincerity,

    Mazelton

And now to write the blasted opening. And redraw the picture. And then get his head examined because he must be crazy.

 

It was the second time in three days that Mazelton found himself staring at the New Scandi board in the Sky Runners’ office. The jobs were so… ordinary. Please deliver three new wagon wheels. Please send sixteen apple trees and twelve pear trees, or rootstock for same. Farm help needed. Blacksmith needed. Greensmith needed. Forester needed. Offering food and lodging. Help learning a trade. Your own Cheve after one year of honorable employment. Not that there was anything wrong with any of this stuff- someone had to do it and it certainly wasn’t going to be him. The plants go in the dirt, except the bad plants which come out of the dirt before the good plants come out of the dirt. Except when they don’t, because sometimes the bad plants are good plants at a bad time, and vice versa. That was as much as he knew about farming. And now he was very seriously investigating marriage with a farmer he never met.

“Mind if I ask you a couple of questions that probably have obvious answers?”

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“If they aren’t too dumb.” The factor grinned at him.

“I notice that a lot of boards have notices looking for husbands and wives, but only the one for New Scandi. Any particular reason for that?”

“Yep, a few of them.” The factor started ticking them off on his fingers. “One- it’s a brand new Canton, so a small population which means only a few people need spouses. Two- Dusty Canton, and they are pretty serious about it. So that’s a turn off for settlers looking to get hitched. Three- It’s on the tail end of a very long road, so the spouses of the people who die along that road tend to marry people from their, or other, caravans. Meaning they don’t need to send for a spouse once they reach New Scandi.”

“Wait, they just find someone in the caravan to marry?”

“Usually there are big get-togethers at the rest stops. A few caravans meet, mingle, and hey, who says you can’t find love around a campfire?”

“Love?”

“What, you don’t believe in love?”

“I do, but what’s it got to do with marriage?”

The Sky Runner factor just shook his head in mock sadness.

“Now that one is too dumb to answer.”

Mazelton felt wronged, but decided to press on regardless.

“Alright, leaving that to the side, how long does it take to get a letter to and from New Scandi?”

“How much money are you looking to spend?”

Mazelton just stared at him.

“I’m not jerking you around, it really is a question of money. You want it cheap, or if you are sending anything physical, like goods, it’s gotta go by caravan or courier. Caravan is cheapest, seasonal, and slow as hell. Between six and nine months each way. Courier gets there when they get there, usually after making all their other stops along the way. We don’t send out one courier, obviously, it’s a whole band, so equally obviously they only get moving once they have enough deliveries to make the job worth it. Still, it’s much faster, almost two months each way.”

“Courier is that much faster than a caravan?”

“Yep. We just load up our packs and start hiking. More direct paths, less time wasted, easier to feed, better in pretty much every way except how much we can carry. I’m not sure what the record is from here to the coast, but… probably not much over a month. Now, these are the cheapest options, though I wouldn’t call them cheap, except in comparison to the fast options.”

Mazelton felt a small chill.

“For a perfect duplicate of whatever you are sending, which means just words and pictures, we have a network of remnant tech that allows us to transmit a copy station to station almost instantly. Part of the contract is the destruction of duplicate letters, obviously, along with a bond for silence. Basically, I transmit a copy to the next factor, then he sends a copy, and so on. Right up to Vast Green Isle, at which point it gets couriered back to New Scandi. Takes about a week each way, because the courier ain’t moving until they have enough mail to justify the trip.”

“No factor in New Scandi?”

“Too small, and the Cantons are too spread out over the new territory. Not worth it.”

“You have the look of a man with an even faster option.”

“Oh yes I do. Do you know what this is?”

The factor grinned and held up an ornate contraption nestled in a well padded iron box. Roughly spherical, the expensive metal cage was filled with tiny wire filaments which seemed to fuse with a dull silvery sphere at the center. A person who didn’t have to rely on just their eyes might notice the sphere was crammed with invisible patterns and forms, far smaller than even the best knife could carve. Oh yes, Mazelton knew exactly what it was. His Grandmother was famous for them.

“I do. Should I assume that someone has a weapon trained on me as we speak?”

“Hey, you really do know what it is! And yes, but we do that to everyone that comes in, don’t take it personally. Most people just ignore it.”

Mazelton found it very hard to ignore.

“No offense, but if you were a polisher, I would know about it.”

“None taken, I’m not.” The factor grinned.

Mazelton thought it through a while longer. He took a hard look at the orb. No clan crest, or at least nothing that looked like a crest.

“It’s a remnant. The Sky Runners found a cache of remnant stone calling spheres that somehow don’t need a polisher to operate. Great Dusty World… First Swabian?!”

“You are the very first person I’ve met who got it right on the first guess. Rumors of you being some kind of genius polisher were true.”

“Not remotely true. I am second rate, and that’s me trying to keep my spirits up. I’m just better trained than most polishers this far west. Well, this side of the Sea Folk.”

The factor waived the disclaimers away.

“Point is that it’s incredibly rare and we are the only tribe that's willing to publicly admit that we have it. And let the public benefit from it. For a very reasonable fee.”

Mazelton was already shaking his head.

“Nope, no way. I’m not that motivated, and I’m sure that Okempi isn’t that motivated either. I’ll settle for the second most expensive option, thank you. Which is… how much exactly? I’ve got about a page of text and a picture.”

The Sky Runner factor let a warm smile melt across his face.

“Well now, instead of money, how do you feel about paying in trade? I can only discount so much for a second rate polisher, of course, but-”

“You dare underprice my genius!?”

In some matters, Mazelton was too much his mother’s son. They went ten rounds, but that morning saw Mazelton’s letter fly across half a continent.

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