A winter voyage is always riskier. But they’re heading south so the weather should stay fairly constant. Plus this way they miss the flooding Spring and late Summer.

The barge is long, and low. Kodumemeki stands on the rear platform, punting the barge beside his elder son. His younger son naps in the prow of the boat, a wide straw hat shielding him from the sun and a poncho of horse-wool keeping him warm.

They’re even wearing trousers. Uncivil, yes, but good for winter travel. Baggy, hempen affairs tied with a simple belt.

The punt is richly laden: jade, celadon, bone, wine, pickles, and ginger—oh so much ginger—fill the bottom. One has to clamber over and between the pots to reach the front platform. A simple tent of hide, held up by posts at the fore-and-aft platforms allows for protection from the rain. But today’s weather is bright and clear so they leave the boat uncovered.

It’s a long voyage, longer than they’ve ever taken.

But last year, in Madähā, he met a queer merchant with the most peculiar of accents. Initially he’d assumed it was a Sonubodjun merchant—those cousins of the Rhadāmä who don’t seem to produce much save for a delightful, unctuous fish sauce.

But no, he was dressed all wrong. Apparently he was a Läba merchant, from a great salt lake far further south than the many realms of rotu.

While the accent was peculiar, and the clothes ill-spun, he carried with him the most delightful of berries. Berries without juice, but instead, which make your mouth feel as though it is alive with fire.

Kodumemeki only managed to bring a small jar of the dried berries—long, thin, and red—back to Konuthomu, but they were immensely popular. And the Spring-Soups he had in Madähā, spiced with those chilis were among the best he’d ever had.

So as a premium purveyor of the finest spices of the south, Kodumemeki was called upon to gain more—gain a year’s supply for NaräthātsäThanä.

His marriage feather is red, how could he refuse?

The southern lakes are noticeably different from Tsukōdju, the lake of his ancestors.

For one, they’re far calmer. They lack the heft which makes Tsukōdju the centre of the world. But their well-cultivated shores and the orchards which surround them are quite delightful all the same. Especially in the winter.

Konuthomu receives minimal frosts, especially on the lake-shore itself. But the air does gain a nip to it, and snowfall occasionally graces the city—even if it never stays for longer than a day.

Not so down here.

His sons have both taken their ponchos off to propel the boat, letting the cool winter sun warm their bodies as they propell the barge forward.

In the front of the boat, he goes through the inventory. Though in truth, his mind wonders.

There’s a poem, an old, sad one about these lakes. About someone leaving home. Perhaps it needs a sequel?

The market at Madähā is bustling, busy. While Kodumemeki’s sons hawk wares, he himself seeks out a Sonubodjun merchant—“please, may I follow you to your city and trade my offerings of pottery and ginger”? And the same to a merchant of Läba.