Chapter Forty Nine

Being a treatise on the culture of the demigods of the steppe, concerning matters of culture, of religion, of organisation, of cuisine, of etiquette in matter of peace and war, and of conduct amongst a new species hitherto undiscovered and unrecorded in the libraries of the Court of Ivory, of whom knowledge is to be treasured and expounded for the benefit of academia in general and the fields of anthropology, sociology, political studies, history, biology (both mundane and mutant) amongst others.

By Hull va Trochi and Carza vo Anka.

With special thanks given to Anthan of Apo, Lirana Magg of Mahar Jovan, Egg of Fidelizh, and Cam of Fidelizh. Without whose assistance the acquiring of this knowledge would be impossible, and whose sacrifice was integral to the success of the expedition. Let each forthcoming statement be mentally preceded by thanks to those who would give themselves, body and soul, for the preservation of others.

Carza stared at her typewriter.

That felt long. But... well, she could come up with something snappier later. At least it had begun. The great work. The thing which justified everything up to this point. Her fingers hovered over the keys of her wonderful machine... and she struggled to think of something relevant. How to begin? She could begin with... no, no, what had she been taught from years of work in this vein? Never write the introduction first. Write the introduction at the same time as the conclusion, they weren't going to ask a theurgist to date the document, to arrange all pages in the order in which they were written... just leave it like this. Fine. She'd come back to the introduction later. Her conclusion too. This would just be... a step removed from notes. Something more organised. She tapped a few keys.

It is a topic of substantial and not unwarranted controversy...

...that sounded scholarly. Now, if she knew what was controversial... hm.

The dictionary defines...

No. Definitely not. Couldn't happen. Where the hell did she start? There's more than humans in the world, no, she wasn't crazy, she... oh. Oh. That was a thought. That was a distressing thought. No-one was going to believe her, were they? She needed proof. She definitely needed proof. And if she couldn't haul back one of them in a tank of formaldehyde (abandoned - she didn't have enough formaldehyde for that), then she'd need to persuade them the normal way. She needed someone who was willing to abandon their home, their family, and their ancestors (who were enormous monsters with four arms, four eyes, tusks, and scent glands) which also meant abandoning immortality... in order to come and keep her academic reputation from completely dissolving. To come to a city where they'd be... unusual. Kani coughed - right, yes, Carza shared a tent. Been at least a week or so, now. Recovered enough to be completely independent, and... mostly she just sat around. Helped with the sewing, sometimes with hauling stuff, tidying... but she wasn't a good labourer. At all.

Tobok had been nice enough. 'Go on, eat up, fill your stomach. The more meat you eat, the stronger you'll become, the sooner you can help out more around here'. Which was the nicest possible way of getting her to feel better about sponging off a perfectly nice family that was trying to prepare for winter. Anyway. Kani's mother, who was... well, that was one of the interesting things she had to write about. Kani's mother was currently in the state of half-mourning. Her son was off raiding and pillaging far the west, and his presence loomed over all conversations with the rest of the family. Maybe he was getting rich, or maybe he was bringing shame to the family, or maybe he was dead. She never even learned his name - the names of the dead were not to be spoken. So... keep quiet. And her half-mourning extended to her daughter, who was readying herself for marriage, which was itself a form of death - she would be taken away and likely never to return.

So, half-mourning. And that meant her name was dangerous. She would only be called 'the woman by the cauldron' or 'the woman with a wavy forelock by that stand of grass'. Or just 'that one'. If they were ambiguous, they were safe - but if they named her, they might unknowingly invoke bad luck. Carza just thought of her as 'Mrs. Cauldron', on the grounds that it was easier than 'Kani's Mother', which was... well, not much longer, but she still didn't like it. But because of luck, she couldn't find out her real name.

And that was the crux of things: luck. Luck and danger seemed to be at the forefront of their cultural imagination. Everything had to be lucky. Bells in the hair were good luck at this time of year, but only for men. A season from now, and women could wear bells in their hair for good luck. Having an honoured guest who was content with her treatment was very good luck, it reflected well on a household. And treating a guest poorly... well, that was the worst luck around. Hard to tell if being nice to her was to invoke good luck, or to repel bad luck. Was she a potential positive, or a restrained negative? Sometimes she wondered if her hosts knew that. But the point was, everything was about being lucky. And listening to their conversations... she could see why. The Kralist, those silkworm farmers out in some valley, had apparently been snowed in. Avalanche had buried the entrance to their valley way ahead of schedule. No getting out. They just hoped they had enough food stored for the winter, that all their herds had been dragged into the valley before the entrance sealed up, because... well, if they didn't, they were all going to starve painfully to death. Be eating their boot leather by the time the spring thaw set in. Not enough time for the avalanche remains to clear before the cold filled the place up with snow all over again.

Like that, the Kralist were apparently on the brink of extinction. And no-one would know until the pass cleared.

No wonder people were being so paranoid about luck. One avalanche... a pothole, and a horse could trip, breaking a leg. At that point, it just had to die. A disease among the sheep. A wolf which they didn't kill in time, slavering jaws marking the sheep with all manner of nastiness. A raid from a neighbouring group. All manner of problems. Time slipped by easily here, so much had to occur at a slower, more animal pace. The grass was good, the world was calm, the winter had yet to set in. So, they'd wait. Why move around when they didn't need to? Stay still. Gather food. Set up a proper station for drying their meat into long, thin strips to chew once they needed to start rationing during winter. 'Time for getting fat', her host had called it. 'Summer is too busy for getting fat. And you sweat it all off anyway. Winter is too hungry for getting fat. Spring is fine, but autumn... autumn is when you get nice and bloated, fed on summer yields, waiting for the winter. Like bears, huh?'

He had such a way with words.

Anyway.

Kani.

"Yes?"

"...you've been staring at the page for a few minutes now. You look irritable. Are you quite alright?"

"I'm fine."

Ever since Kani had seen her crying over the cauldron she hadn't been quite the same. Seemed to have convinced herself that Carza was on the verge of doing something stupid. Incorrect. She was on the verge of doing something brilliant - her ethnography, the thing that made this all worthwhile, and could maybe satisfy Hull's legacy. There was no room for anything but absolute perfection here, she wouldn't dare to do anything less than that tremendous standard. Which meant-

"You don't look fine."

Kani was sewing quietly, putting together a new coat. Looked nice, but... anyway. Carza glared.

"I'm fine. I just need to write... something."

"...oh. Yes. Your 'ethnography'."

"That's the one."

"Would you like some help?"

"...I think I'm alright."

"No, no, go on. Tell me. What are you up to?"

Carza steepled her fingers to look wise, gave up, scratched her chin, flinched as she hit a sore spot, then just settled on massaging her temples gently. Could feel a headache coming on. Been having plenty of headaches ever since the mountains. Permanent brain freeze that came and went in ebbs and flows, babbling through her skull like an icy river inflated by summer thaw. Urgh, why couldn't she apply that kind of phrasing to this, why-

"I'm trying to write about your culture. Figuring out where to start."

"Culture?"

"Customs. Habits. Etiquette. Beliefs."

Kani tilted her head to one side, then the other, humming under her breath. Her skin caught the light, gleaming brightly. Carza sometimes found herself surprised she'd gotten used to that - at being around a non-human who looked like the thing which had killed her closest friend. But... here she was. She was assured that other humans existed here, but she'd only seen two - 'black-headed ones', meaning commoners or lower-born individuals, kidnapped years and years ago. A pair of old, gnarled men who kept a very long distance from her at all times, and spent their days simply herding the sheep and horses. Seemed to enjoy their solitude, and refused to speak with Carza - not lucky for slaves to speak with guests, apparently. Still waiting for an opportunity to interrogate them... maybe when they were on the road. But at camp, they had their own tent, kept their own hours, and ate alone.

Anyway.

"Well, you could talk about our clothing."

Carza blinked.

"...I could?"

"You could. Clothing is nice and simple. Start basic, become complicated. That seems a good model."

"...but can you really develop a broader understanding just based on clothes?"

Kani clicked her needles faster, and her hum became more excited.

"Oh, yes. Definitely. Our clothes, for instance, are thick. Our decorations are lavish. They were scented with fine herbs, this is because we're civilised and take good care of our clothing. An attractive outfit is a harbinger of good luck."

She paused.

"And you wear your strange 'tweed' stuff, which is plain, rough, and highlights your practical, unladylike nature. I assume this brings you luck in your home country."

"...it's warm."

"I am warmer."

She looked warmer. Dammit.

"I'm not unladylike. This is feminine clothing. By our standards."

"The point remains. Describe our clothes. Then you can build upwards to a fuller understanding of our way of thinking. You can talk about luck, and... uh... sheep. I can talk a lot about clothes."

"I'll just get to work on the grammar."

Kani set her knitting down with a sense of finality and resignation. She strode over - Carza was sitting on her cot, where she usually worked - and shuffled her aggressively until she could sit down beside the scholar. She peered at the paper, and hummed.

"You haven't written much at all."

Carza blushed.

"No."

"What were you writing all this time?"

"...the title."

"...that's not very productive, is it?"

"I'm not sure if I should dedicate time to writing about your... clothing habits. I mean, a fashion for you might not be a fashion for other groups. And a fashion might change before I get back home. It's... well, I think there's things like beliefs to analyse, that feels more... useful, I suppose. More fundamental."

"Shush. Now, clothes-"

"I'm not writing about clothes."

"You can and you will. Now, the outer garment-"

Carza sighed, and kept massaging her temples. Kani was... nice. Very nice. But she was also highly convinced of her own correctness, and utterly convinced that Carza was unstable and lonely. Which wasn't wrong. But her response to that was being constantly present with some excuse or another, and she insisted on helping with Carza's ethnography. Sometimes that was just polite enquiries. Sometimes that was... this. Trying to write it. You couldn't write an ethnography of your own culture, it lacked the necessary objectivity that distance brought. Well, you could, but it wouldn't be of much use. As she went through her garments, going from the outer coat/robe, to the inner tunic, to the cloth they wore as undergarments, wrapped around and around their chests and waists (too difficult to work around for normal people, but for them... well, apparently their species were a little like camels. Very good at taking up water, and not too inclined to give it back)... well, she had to talk about luck. The outer garment was the least lucky, which was why it had to be properly stitched up at all times. The decorations were likewise to create a more neutral atmosphere around it. That made sense to her. But Carza was interested in distilling that down to the basic belief, to luck itself.

And then there were their funerary beliefs, which were something else entirely...

She'd still not quite gleaned the right information. Speaking of the dead was completely taboo except in certain situations. Carza was too old, they weren't going to educate a grown adult from a foreign country on things which were so taboo they could only really be taught to children or novice priests. And even then, the children had to still lack their proper, adult names - which made them somewhat resistant to the bad luck of being taught about death. And their teachers had to do it in complete darkness, whispering under their breaths while never making direct eye contact with their student. Reminded her of some of the Court of Ivory's weirder esoteric practices, but... the point was, she had barely gleaned a little information on their funeral rites. And those seemed to be... well, weird. Something to do with forgetting, with Iron Halls, with symbolic whales... and the rumbling deep-names of the earth. When she asked about them, invariably Kani looked up to the mountains and murmured something under her breath.

...she could start with luck.

Luck felt easy.

It is difficult to describe the present-day culture of the demigods of the steppe without referring to the notion of luck, which pervades all other beliefs, providing rewards for successful adherence, and punishments for incorrect adherence. Arguably, luck began first, the framework serving to justify all other beliefs, a flexible foundation suitable for adding just about anything. Beliefs relating to clothing, to life, to death, to the land, to cooking, to names... it's hard to say how any of them could be sustained or articulated without reference to luck. And...

She paused. Kani was still talking. Might as well.

And the first, most important emanation of this is through clothing. As articulated by one of my informants, the clothing system of the demigods is based upon modesty and luck. Decoration is extensive, perhaps a reflection of lacking many permanent goods due to a nomadic lifestyle. They cannot hoard jewels or huge quantities of gold, not unless they want to carry it all around with them at all times, so they embroider their gold into their coats, they add jewels to their hair, personal appearance serving as both a reservoir of wealth and a necessary defence against bad luck, while inviting good luck to stay in its place.

"Hold on, Kani, I had an idea. Just a second."

Arguably, luck is conceived of as a single entity. Investigations are necessary to confirm if this entity's approach is considered the good outcome, or if its absence is the preferred result. Is luck a matter of warding or inviting? Clothing seems to be the latter case, as clothes form a sort of armour around the vulnerable points, and-

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

She stopped.

Something was happening outside. Kani looked around nervously... the sound of hoof-beats, the chaos of the camp being rearranged... and then he came. Kani's fiance. Bursting through the flaps of the tent, breathing heavily. She didn't know what she thought of him - like the family patriarch, he was usually busy tending to the herds, or riding around the edges of their current territory. Hunting, most commonly. Brought back huge marmots for them to eat. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him much, and he didn't look broken up over that fact. Even now, he shot her a strange look - she didn't even know his name, actually. He was from another clan, brought in to serve out his appointed period of servitude, and that made him unlucky. He could always jilt her, or fail to perform his duties. And that ambiguity made him risky, and that risk made him a magnet of bad luck, and that meant it was wise to treat him like Kani's mother was treated - but not using a real name. Everyone just called him 'Dog', but Carza wasn't going to dare call him that to his face. She could see how he flinched at it.

Dog's glass face loomed down at the two of them, his wiry, thick hair tied into a tight bun at the back of his head, his clothes streaked with sweat and grime from the ride over here. His eyes, black and deep, were shimmering with moisture, making it seem like he had pools of oil nestling in his eye sockets, or some kind of viscous tadpole. He spoke quickly, too quickly for her to really follow - his accent was thick, his clan apparently all spoke a little like that. Muddled. A little on the garbled side. Not that she could judge. She tried to listen along, but... too fast. Too distorted. But Kani understood, and she began to knead her dress with her hands, glass skin flexing alarmingly as she crushed the fabric over and over and over, stress working its way through her entire frame. Carza quietly packed away her papers, her typewriter... everything she needed. Had her boots on. Took effort to sleep without them these days, she didn't like the idea of being caught unprepared. Clothes. Gun... some bullets in her bag, but she kept the weapon itself hidden. Hadn't seen a gun around here, so... didn't want to introduce a priceless commodity that people would kill to possess. Not until she needed to.

Dog came to a slow halt, breathing heavily.

Carza looked up from her packing, locking eyes with Kani, who looked utterly terrified.

"What's wrong?"

"...raiding party. Coming from the west. Looks to be small, but... we don't have..."

She trailed off. Carza felt panic rising in her.

"Should we run?"

"The men will run, yes. The women and slaves will stay."

Carza felt her blood freeze.

"What?"

Kani spoke quickly, irritation rising into her voice as Carza once more questioned the obvious.

"If the men die, we might as well be dead or captured ourselves. If they die, we can't defend ourselves, our herds will collapse... the raiding parties won't chase them, they only want women and slaves for capture, but they'll kill any man they find. So they run. And we stay. If we go, the party will pursue all of us. If we go, the party will demolish our camp, we'll have relinquished all right to this. We can't afford to lose our tents, our larders. We simply can't. And if the men stay to assert ownership, they will be killed."

Carza wanted to swear. And violently. Dog was shivering - what did he have to worry about, he was allowed to run away into the distance while the rest were enslaved. Why not fight? No, only two men, the two slaves were too old to fight properly. If they were running, the party was probably too large. Even four men would be a far chance, six would be nearly impossible unless everyone involved was very lucky indeed. Carza reached for her gun, concealed in a dirty cloth... six bullets. Assuming she hit each one, that was six people down in a best case scenario before she needed to reload, which would take time. And if she was close enough to hit, then she wouldn't have time to reload before she was cut down. Best case. Worst case, she missed all. Better than that, she might hit one or two... maybe a wound... too much uncertainty.

"How many?"

"Seven."

Crud.

"We can fight, can't-"

"Carza, shut up, we need to prepare. Dog, you..."

Carza stopped listening. Too busy stuffing her possessions away. The steppe was vast, the grass was long... she could shelter out there easily enough. The two men were saddling their horses with the help of the slaves, and she felt a spark of hate towards them, despite how accommodating everyone had been. Running off into the hills, running from a raiding party instead of taking everyone... why? Why? Because... because this way they might lose some people to kidnapping, rather than losing everyone to kidnapping or simple murder. Because if they all went, they'd be hunted for their possessions. The men were storing trinkets in their saddles, some strips of dried meat... how long would they be out there? Dog was spurred outside to his own horse, though he shot Kani a regretful look which she gladly returned. Didn't know what she saw in him, he looked weaselly. And that look... reminded her too much of Miss vo Larima when she betrayed everyone to save her own skin.

The next thing Carza knew, she was being dragged into the tent, where Kani and her mother were bustling through their belongings.

"What's-"

"Shh."

Kani's mother was speaking, and her tone was sharp. Angry. Insistent.

"They won't take me, idiot girl. I'm too old for them. The slaves, too - far too old. Not even sport in killing them, no honour in it. Two of you - need to look undesirable."

Carza blinked dumbly. Kani took over while her mother looked for something in their bags.

"We need to look old. Undesirable. Weak. Lame. Dangerous in some way. If the party believes we're useless, they'll move on once we give them food and drink for the journey, for the trouble of coming here."

The trouble of... the trouble of coming out to raid and pillage like a bunch of barbarians? This was absurd, but she was unwilling to say so. Not the place. And most definitely not the time.

"Fine. How?"

Kani's mother draped some cheap, threadbare rags over her daughter, then reached in to scramble her hair into a messy, wiry pile.

"My daughter can be made to look as if she is in mourning, as if the taboos of mourning apply to her. This will protect her, I hope. And if not... I can make her look old. You, though... you are a challenge. Are you lame?"

"No. I don't think so."

"And you are hard to paint until you look old... our remedies are for our kind, not yours. Hm."

Carza had an idea, and she reached into her backpack, pulling out a cigarillo.

"I can... I can try and act insane. Like a priestess. The tattoo on my forehead, the cigarillo... the frostbite is still healing, too. If I act mad, will they try and take me?"

"...hm. Hm."

Kani's mother nodded approvingly.

"They won't be interested in a mad foreign priestess, no. Not if they have wits."

Carza bit her lip. Didn't seem reliable enough... hm.

"Does this look familiar?"

Kani stared wide-eyed at the revolver that Carza pulled out, barely capable of speaking as her mother smeared some sort of substance around her features - something dusty and muddy simultaneously, dulled her shine, made her skin seem dimmer. The rags were wrapped tightly, her coat and robe were being stowed somewhere else... and then, while Carza winced, Kani's mother, Mrs. Cauldron, rubbed some sort of spice under her eyes, forcing her to cry like an infant, even if she didn't sob once - just water in the eyes, no emotion tied to it. It was working, just a little. She looked older. Less attractive. And definitely distraught. But they might need to renew the spices... and it was hard to hide that she was tall and thin and in good shape. No amount of robes could hide her height. Carza wanted to run away, but... hm. Mrs Cauldron narrowed her eyes at it.

"You have a fire-spitter? Smaller than any I've ever seen."

Fine. Fire-spitter. What they called guns. Fine. If they didn't have pistols, that would work just fine for her - no-one would expect her to conceal one. She'd thought of using it like some sort of magical wand, blasting away and frightening the unenlightened. But... no. Just for defence. But damn good defence. Her typewriter was removed from her bag quickly, and she swiftly set it up on the ground in the tent, where she could sit and mumble and growl like a wild animal. Type away mad prophecies with her alien engine. And generally be someone you didn't want to spend longer than a moment around, let alone the remainder of her natural life. Luck, luck... what had she learned? Luck was important, yes. Luck was very important, bad luck more so. If she was careful, she might be able to... hm. She glanced down, and spoke quietly.

"What can I do that's unlucky?"

Mrs. Cauldron glanced over, frowning with concentration.

"...leave your hair loose, let it hang over your eyes. And speak of... of..."

She hesitated, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Talk of making their whale forget them."

"Right. Fine. I can do that."

"But they shan't forget their whale."

"I understand."

"You don't. But it'll do."

She hoped Mrs. Cauldron was right. Desperately. Her hair was mussed, she removed her coat and jacket, anything to seem unlucky - she remembered hearing that the torso contained a great deal of bad luck, so she made sure to avoid looking like a local by covering herself up as much as she'd like. Just her shit and waistcoat. She wasn't indecent. The three of them huddled together in the tent, around the cauldron... and Carza put on her act. She typed away, meaningless nonsense for a moment... and then she simply started to work on her notes again, anything to calm herself down. Raiding practices. That ought to get the blood flowing on behalf of the scholars back home, raiding was exciting, especially when it didn't happen to her. Kani reached out, squeezing her hand.

"You'll be fine. We both will."

Carza nodded silently.

And if they weren't... the gun would see to their safety.

She'd lost her best friend. Her entire expedition. And while she wasn't sure if she could call Kani a close friend, wasn't sure if she was ready for a friend of any sort at the moment... she could say that she'd gladly shoot someone if it looked like they were going to hurt her. Because she'd lost enough. And if she lost more, she'd... she remembered Hull. Cold. Still. And then burning up behind her, while she was too cowardly to even look up to see the smoke rising. Not happening again. She'd rather... no, the usual phrase was 'would rather die'. But that felt weak. Dying was passive. She'd would rather kill. And that was quite the commitment.

Damn scholarly peacefulness.

She wasn't losing anyone else. Certainly not the people who'd gone out of their way to help her.

And thus... they waited.

* * *

Minutes slid by in silence... the slaves were by themselves. Had a grim resignation. Carza wondered if they'd try to sell out their current owners, but... the family seemed willing to trust them. They were so old and strange that she doubted anyone would want to take them, honestly. Maybe that was what everyone was counting on. A few minutes... and the sound of hoofbeats rose into the air. Seven horses. Seven riders. Shadows in the camp, towering over the people, over the tents... she barely saw them as they came. But she heard them. Barking in their language. Orders to check, to plunder, to make things quick. No explanation for why speed was necessary... did they expect retribution? Another pulse of distaste for the men who'd run, even if she could understand the basic logic. Logic was nothing when it involved something like this, she'd take irrationality and emotion if it meant safety of some sort... usually it didn't. But in this case...

The thump of people dismounting reached her ears.

One by one, the tents were checked. Murmurs, nothing truly audible. Speed was indeed the name of the game - they worked fast. And indeed, indeed they wound up in her tent sooner than she'd have liked. The flap was pulled open, and a large, bearded head thrust itself through.

Glittering eyes stared at the three.

And the act commenced.

Kani rocked back and forth, murmuring prayers under her breath, hiding her face in the confines of her hood. Her mother simply tended to the fire, and shot the invader a distasteful look. Carza... Carza typed furiously, rambling about anything she liked, while slipping through every language she knew which the man wouldn't. Her home tongue, Mahar Jovan's civisprach, a few dead languages, even a fragment or two of antique Tralkic that she knew would sound familiar, but wouldn't rationalise into anything truly comprehensible. The most unnerving murmur she could manage. And she kept it up, panic helping her go on even when her lungs begged for breath, creating the image of perpetual speech, the kind which undulating and flowed... like Kralat preaching his philosophy of violent revolution, undulating charisma that flowed over and into the people who were unlucky enough to hear it. Carza worked away, typing faster, slamming the carriage return with as much force as she dared, to elicit the loudest possible ding.

Only once did she glance up...

To see all seven standing there.

Bearded, all of them. And human. The first free humans she'd seen since arriving here. They looked... a little like the residents of the Court of Horn. But their culture had clearly shifted over the years. Their hair was unbound and wild, their faces were weather-beaten and tough, their beards were enormous. No styling, only decorated with a few little charms, most carved from bones or pieces of flashing glass. They wore layers of leather over similar clothes to the other men she'd seen here, no helmets to hide their wild manes. Sabres were slung at their belts, and practised hands rested easily on their hilts. Ready to draw at a moment's notice. Their leader stepped forwards, a little older than the others, and stronger by far. Broad and short, but not quite squat. Looked too strong. Much too strong for her to fight properly, she'd need the gun to win. He wasn't big, but he was sturdy, girdled with hard-worn muscle worn under layers of practical fat. He stamped his right foot, a gesture the others repeated. A salute. A handshake. Some equivalent.

"Demigods. I apologise. We are here for our claims - is our claim to be challenged?"

Mrs Cauldron spoke coldly.

"No challenge here. But you had better not lay hands, the ancestors wouldn't take kindly to that."

She gestured curtly.

"Sit and eat, if you must. Drink, if you must. But there's nothing else. My son is at war, I am in half-mourning."

The invaders looked at one another hesitantly, and the leader nodded graciously.

"We quite understand. We shan't cause you any trouble. And your guests?"

"My sister mourns for her lost husband. And my guest is a foreign priestess. Better for her to be kept in a tent where she can't ramble madness to innocent strangers."

Carza almost growled at her for that. She wasn't mad, but... she sounded mad. She was, indeed, rambling aimlessly, saying nothing more than Melqua's recipe for fruitcake dissected into half a dozen languages and then garbled with odd accents and mispronunciations. One of the invaders glanced around angrily, then kicked a chair over with an irritable bark. He stalked outside...

And Carza heard someone begging for mercy.

Mrs Cauldron looked down at the ground.

And two strokes were heard.

Snap.

Snap.

And two bodies falling to the ground. The raider stalked back inside, cleaning his sword on a cloth hanging from his belt - she'd thought it was simply brown. Now she saw that it had been soaked through with dried blood. Carza was terrified... but not at the deaths. She was terrified of how numb she was. She'd seen worse. They died quickly. They weren't tortured, mutated, and they died in their old age. She wanted to mourn them, even if she barely knew them, but... she'd seen so much pointless carnage. After a point, something in her had hardened to it. She hoped it wasn't anything important. Hoped nothing had been lost. And the fact that she was the one to be concerned about here, not her fellows, not the slaves... it was enough. Tiny droplets of spittle bloomed at the corner of the mad raider's lips, and he snarled at the others.

"Nothing but two ancient slaves. Half-dead already. No point in them. I want my share of the loot to be those two. And as their owner, I get to kill them. Right?"

The leader nodded calmly.

"Fine. All of you: take what treasure you can find. And be quick."

The others ran off, sabres rattling loudly in their sheaths. Two dead. He'd just... killed two people with casual strikes, and now his leader was treating them with courtesy. Like they were honoured hosts, and he was a gentle guest abiding by all the proper rites. Like he wasn't a raider who'd come here to steal what he pleased and kill what he despised. The leader squatted slightly, resting on his hips, staring intently at the others. Kani kept rocking back and forth, moaning and crying - entirely because of the spice she'd rubbed just underneath her eyes. So far... it was working. The three of them seemed truly undesirable. A madwoman, a mourning widow, and a half-mourning mother. Enough bad luck in them to choke one of those monstrous ancestors up in the mountains. Mrs Cauldron quietly offered a bowl of warmed alcoholic milk... why not poison? Why not use that? But... no, no, she'd need to poison everyone at once for that to work. The leader sipped quietly, his eyes falling on Carza. Without warning, he stood up, and walked over softly, boots making nary a sound on the carpeted floor.

"A foreign priestess... hm. Not seen your type before."

"And then you add the currants and mix well, incorporating into the dough, in order to create a loaf which is properly suited for-"

"Truly mad, hm. Truly mad. Interesting machine, wonder-"

Carza lunged, covering the machine, before snarling like an angered cat. Her eyes bulged. Her teeth were bared. She channelled all the fury she'd felt at those bloody ancestors up on the mountains, at this whole situation, at the fact that she was alone and would be for quite some time. All of it a seething mass that fuelled her fiercely.

"Touch my holy setter of type and ink and I will feed you to the burning man in my dreams, ha?"

The man drew back, startled... before chuckling nervously, tugging at his beard with one hand.

"Mad one, mad one. Keep your tool. Looks strange anyhow. Unnatural."

Only a savage would think so.

The other raiders stumped back, some good split between them... a few jewels. A little chain of gold here and there. Some of the decorations to be worn in hair. They looked furious at the haul. Too meagre. Too small. The warning had come through too early for them to do anything proper, had to content themselves with the remains, the things that'd been missed... or perhaps left behind deliberately. Little treats to satisfy them, to awaken the hunger and not to sate it. The leave them frustrated. The weight of her gun was heavy in her waistcoat, and she longed to drag it out, to feel some control...

One of the men leaned over to the leader.

"Ought to be going. Others might've been warned. Best to run."

The savage one, the one who'd killed the two slaves... he ignored the warning. Quietly, he strode over, a handful of bells jangling in his free hand. Sacred bells for the adornment of hair, the inviting of luck... he carried them like a child carrying roasted nuts, with easy greed. He stared strangely at Kani, at her murmuring form, at her shaded eyes, at her constant crying... he spoke quietly.

"...funny, eh. That they should have three poor brides. Mad, old, and old. Seems unlikely."

He grunted.

"Seems unlikely."

He reached out... Mrs Cauldron interrupted, her voice strained.

"Your comrade is correct. You ought to leave."

"We leave when we wish to leave."

"If there is more food you want, take it. But don't expect to eat it all before it goes off. Wouldn't deprive us of our rations for winter."

The leader grunted.

"Bad times. They say the Scabrous are going north again. Say the fortunate era's coming to an end. We need us some food to ride out the waves of bad fortune about to come our way. That's all."

Yeah. Right. And they weren't going to kidnap or murder. She saw nothing in their eyes but rank opportunism, and it disgusted her. She'd seen a better class of maniac in the Sleepless - at least they believed in something, at least they operated on their own mad logic, and... she was thinking good things about the Sleepless. Ugh. Maybe it was because there was something more dramatic about dying to them. With this bunch...

Anyway. Mrs. Cauldron was speaking firmly.

"Then take some. And be on your way. You have our gold. Would you rather fight for the rest? The ancestors will be coming, soon enough. My husband has already departed to find them. Harass us beyond the limits of custom, and there'll be difficulties."

There was a perverse etiquette here. Yes, come along. Steal our things. Leave what you desire. And then depart. They weren't burning the tents, though the unstable one seemed interested in giving it a go, at least. They weren't stealing everything, just whatever was light and valuable. Taboo was still something they recognised. It felt... well, it felt like the sort of practice that would develop - and she was thinking anthropologically again - among a people which was interested in conflict management. Reduction of grudges. Now, some cultures might develop proper conflict resolution, a way of stopping people from fighting, punishing those that did... but this area seemed to nurture a different attitude. Maybe it was due to scarcity, maybe it was a practice encouraged by the elite, maybe it was just because they lived in a vast expanse of nothing. She couldn't say. But instead of preventing conflict, they allowed it, and then managed it. Stopped it from escalating. As long as they left here and now, there'd be no grudges. No reason to follow one another.

It felt wrong, at least to her.

A society whose notion of law and order was simply... establishing a firm etiquette where you gave the robber what they wanted, and no-one else got hurt.

Except the slaves.

The raiding party glanced at one another. The leader looked bored at this point. They'd been cheated and unlucky. The best had already been taken. All that remained were pointless trinkets and a trio of a madwoman, a mourning woman, and a half-mourning woman. One and a half mourners, and Carza.

What a group.

The maniac, though... Carza tried not to look at him. There was something that disturbed her about him - the furious murder of the slaves, the way he'd almost seen through the disguise... and the way his tongue slithered out of his mouth like a small pink worm. The way his beard was clustered with erratic fragments of bone, like he was adding decorations but idly, because it was expected. The way his eyes were flat and cold. The way his waist-cloth was soaked red from cleaning his sabre, while the others at least had the decency to only have half stained cloths. They exchanged glances, remaining silent. Would they press? Would they harass? Would they take petty revenge? Would they decide to take them anyway? Her hand itched for her gun. If she had it, she could take out one or two... these two women were strong enough in their own right, and the cauldron was filled with boiling water. Tip it over, and flood the room with steam. Make it easier to hurt them. Kill one, take his sabre.

Who was she kidding. She'd lose. Experience with death didn't make her experienced with killing. It just made her cold, tough, and tired.

What would happen, would happen. That was the long and short of it. She felt nothing but apathy towards them, and a mild protectiveness towards those who'd helped her so much. Her cup of emotions had been emptied when Hull died, and at the moment, all she could feel was purposefulness. Everything else was grey and faded.

What happened, happened. Simple.

A click of the leader's fingers. A snarl from the mad raider, like he was a dog being hauled back on his chain.

And a second later, they were gone.

Like they'd never been.

Into the boundless blue. Not a goodbye, just... mounting up, and riding quickly into the rolling green-blue ocean. Where no-one could chase them, no riders, and certainly no ancestors. The transaction had been completed - their lives had been spared, their camp had been left intact, and in exchange... they'd been robbed. Slaves killed. And the killers rode off into the gathering dark, horses whining in protest at the sudden start after such a brief rest. And as they rode, she heard something - a faint tinkle of metal on metal.

They'd stolen those bells. The ones braided through hair.

Bells which rang a mournful tune as they were stolen away into the boundless emptiness of the steppe.