Samsian was in his study when Luos arrived, standing in the dim light of a glowing screen. This was nothing new to the pupil. Floating glowing screens, while exciting at the outset of his magical career, he was coming to hate the things. His master was always demanding Peezlebub conjure one to show him this or that, and the news was more often or not distressing to the old man.

  This one was a composite screen, taking up the entirety of the only blank wall in the wizard’s study. It was covered entirely with tiny numbers and symbols and lines, connecting the concepts the symbols represented – clouds, wheat, silo, bugs – through esoteric values given by the numbers.

  Samsian did not bother with any introduction or greeting, but instead started talking as if Luos had been there the whole time listening to the dissertation in Samsian’s head, which had reached a frothing boil.

  “Holding back the rain will risk drying out the nitrogen-fixers, but they should last long enough if the harvest is on time. We’ll have the fallow season to ramp them back up. I won’t risk wetting the soil directly with the contaminants that have built up from our dry period.”

  He held his right elbow in his left hand while his right hand explored, twisted, and teased his grey beard. Luos – Asmod at his heel – remained silent.

  “Peezle,” Samsian demanded of the cat, which perched on a box next to the glowing screen, “trend the western geiger for the past six moons.”

  The cat licked its paw to wash its face as the giant screen was replaced by a squiggly line. This Luos had also learned – trends, which showed how numbers changed in relation to two metrics. This one climbed like a steep mountain. With the anchor metric being time, it meant the geigers – whatever they were. Luos vaguely recalled they were a toxic aura which existed in the air – were increasing with time.

  The cat commented, “Still within acceptable limits, but approaching the lower danger threshold. If we don’t move some of our clouds over to the west boundary for some much needed rain, a stiff westerly wind will have us eating citrons that positively glow.” A hint of sarcasm had crept into his voice. Luos wasn’t sure if Samsian had noticed.

  “And the reservoir?” he inquired.

  “Recovering,” was all the cat said.

  The man thought for a considerable moment. It was moments like these that caused Luos to wonder if his shoulders were hunched from the sheer weight of his thoughts.

  “Boy,” Samsian said, turning to him, “what is the purpose of Hill Hill? Hmm? Have I asked you this?”

  He didn’t speak accusingly. This was one of his self-styled teaching moments, where he quizzed Luos on his education. Luos cleared his throat.

  “Is it to house people?” he hazarded. This particular question hadn’t arisen before, but he knew it wouldn’t matter to the old man.

  Samsian considered the answer. “That could be part of it, I’ll grant you. A by-product, perhaps. A necessary evil, some might consider.”

  He crossed the room to a stand where there lay several staves. There was a white one with a lozenge shaped cage built into the stick near the top. There was a wrought iron square one which twisted chaotically as it approached the tip, which had a leather grip wrapped around hand-height.

  There was also a very natural-looking wooden one, which tapered near the bottom, bent slightly near the top, and ended in a wild, spiky knot. It looked almost like a wooden chicken foot to Luos. This staff Samsian selected.

  “The purpose of Hill Hill is this, my dear boy. It exists to make food.”

  ****

  The wizard and his pupil walked together as they headed to Iam’s farm. Asmod followed on his stubby legs while Peezle lounged across the wizard’s shoulders.

  By their stride, one would assume they were walking at most a handful of miles per hour. By the way the scenery whipped past them, they were more obviously moving many times that. And Peezle, despite appearances, was doing the most work of the group.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Iam inherited the farm from his grandmother, who skipped her own children on matter of family politics,” Samsian was explaining. “His sister, Llana, normally would have received an equal portion, but she ceded it in exchange for a small property in town and a modest monthly allowance from her brother.”

  Luos absorbed this information as he trailed behind his master, carrying a keg of fresh water on his back. This had been a point of contention for him, as he was on strict orders not to have Asmod carry it by magic. He wasn’t even allowed to have the daemon lighten the load by magic.

  The staff was an object of magic, something acquired by Samsian in his early days. The details of the operation were unimportant to the wizards, and therefore was left to the daemons. The wizards wouldn’t have known or cared about the ordeal placed on Peezle to make the device operate safely and continuously, only that it worked. So, as Peezle was otherwise indisposed in the other realm, Samsian carried his vessel for him.

  The wizard had dubbed the device the Long-travel Staff. While it didn’t eliminate walking entirely, when managed by a daemon, it could multiply the effects. In testing, they had determined that one step could be made into dozens, or hundreds, depending solely on the skill of the daemon and the risk factor accepted by the wizard.

  “This is not preferable to me,” Samsian continued, “as the sister is much more agreeable. The property she exchanged her portion of the farm for is a glazer’s shop, a passion of hers she decided to pursue. Now the farm suffers from mismanagement from a cantankerous, stubborn hawg of a man.”

  “Then why are we going to see him?” Luos asked. He could make the connection so far for the trip. The land is owned by farmers who make the food, and they had to be consulted on matters that he and Peezle couldn’t measure. But as far as Luos could tell, the farm wasn’t underperforming. It hadn’t been the wheat fields or the citron grove he had been concerned about in his study.

  “We are not,” Samsian said. “We are going to see the laborers he is mistreating.”

  A few minutes of silent walking later, and they had arrived on the outskirts of Iam’s farm. Before them spread several acres of kudzu farm.

  “We must make our approach in normal space,” the wizard explained. “It doesn’t do to show off. People are wary – sometimes downright fearful – of things they don’t understand.”

  Peezle, who had been laying across Samsian’s shoulders limp as a fish, lifted his head and shook it in a very catlike manner. He hopped to the ground.

  “I’m proud to announce,” he preened, “that I achieved a travel ratio of 20-to-1 on this little jaunt. A personal best. No need to thank me, but I’ll accept gratitude in the form of treats and words of adoration.”

  Samsian had continued on as if ignoring the cat. Luos crouched to pat the daemon on the head before following after his master, the heavy keg sloshing on his back as he caught up.

  The two daemons grouped up, following their wizards at a fair distance now that they were in public.

  “Is it really hard to manage?” Asmod asked of the cat. The hawgling was still relatively small, but had grown to twice the size of the cat. Its tusks were even faster growing.

  “Ugh,” the cat sighed, “you have no idea. They,” and here he tilted his head towards the wizards ahead, “might be moving faster, but I’ve got to jack my perception rate even higher just to juggle all the factors in keeping the field around them.”

  Asmod winced. The rate-jacking, which increased the daemon’s perception of objective time, didn’t hurt in the least. In fact, it freed up a lot of time for the daemons, who could use it to think and operate much faster than their mortal wizard in the Real. But it was that very idea that rate-jacking to such a level in order to keep up with the real-time operation of the staff that stung. Like being told to take a working break on a busy day in the office.

  “I’ll see if I can’t mock up a simulation in case they need you to handle it,” Peezle concluded.

  “Thanks,” Asmod said uncertainly.

  Samsian and Luos were coming upon a group of men working the vine fields.

  “A lot goes into making this, the kudzu that gets worked into greenmeal,” Samsian said.

  Greenmeal was a staple in Hill Hill, Luos had learned shortly after arriving. It wasn’t tasty on its own, but as his Uncle kept telling him, it was fortifying. One made a bowl of greenmeal from dry greenmeal, which was made from rendered kudzu, which was especially unpleasant to eat fresh from the vine. To it, you add hot water – or hot milk if enough milk were available. Luos could only eat greenmeal if it were smothered in cheese. And then only just.

  The kudzu vines were encouraged to grow on low trellises, which were designed for ease of harvesting. They could be cut near the base and the rest of the plant wound up around rollers for easy transport to the kudzu mill. While the winders cut and wound up the vine, workers would push wheeled carts to and from the mill, into which the winders would throw their latest roll.

  This was what the people in the field were presently engaged in. Men and women toiling away, cutting and rolling kudzu to be tossed into a passing cart, dressed in such ragtag ways as to stave off the worst of the sun, dirt, plants, and their own sweat.

  “Are we going to do some kind of spell for them?” Luos asked. He hefted the keg of water on his back.

  “It’s like a spell,” Samsian mused. “But not one we’ll need a daemon for.”

  “Some kind of calculation then?”

  Samsian shook his head. From the recesses of his robe he pulled a ceramic mug.

  “Nothing quite so tedious. We’re going to give these people water, up to and until we run out,” and then he looked around conspiratorially, “or Iam catches us.”