Previously on Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence...
The Northern Territory savages, perceived as dangerous and cannibalistic, surprise the residents of Black Swamp Town by initiating a large-scale cleaning and medical treatment. A young girl named Little Mud, initially terrified of being eaten, is washed, treated for her festering skin, and given clean clothes, regaining a sense of hope. Meanwhile, Thorne observes the process and questions the use of rotten, insect-infested wood for rebuilding, but Pete insists that charring the wood with fire will kill insects and prevent decay, a method that transforms the salvaged materials.
The charred wood stump was met with a forceful kick from his boot tip, eliciting a grunt: "This timber is so resilient, it wouldn't rot even if submerged in a swamp for a century."
Thorne observed the removal of the burnt-out stumps, only to see them driven into the mire with heavy mallets by other workers.
Beams were then affixed to the parts of the stumps protruding above the mud, creating an elevated platform half a meter off the ground.
Walls constructed from carbonized wood panels were erected, with the crevices sealed by a mixture of clay and dried grass, packed so densely that no wind could seep through.
Positioned resolutely, Thorne watched as a series of darkened house frames ascended from the swamp, his throat constricting.
Just as he prepared to avert his gaze, he noticed the raw, abraded skin on Pete’s shoulder from handling the heavy logs.
Blood mingled with sweat, yet he appeared unperturbed, continuing to direct others in repositioning a foundation stump.
A frown creased Thorne’s brow. He shed his outer robe, tossing it carelessly aside to reveal his shirt, and approached, taking the log from Pete’s shoulder.
"Step aside," he commanded, his tone devoid of warmth. "You lack the required strength for this task. Leave such labor to the Knights."
Pete froze for a beat, then a smile touched his lips. He released the log and offered a water jug.
A silent understanding passed between them as class distinctions dissolved in the shared exertion and sweat.
......
As twilight enveloped the swamp, Little Mud was guided into a newly constructed dwelling.
This structure was among the inaugural homes built in Swamp Town, adhering to Red Tide’s directives, which prioritized shelter for the elderly, infirm, and orphaned children, with able-bodied adults placed further down the allocation list.
She paused at the threshold, then hesitantly, cautiously, entered the house.
The floor comprised of dry wooden planks, preventing her feet from sinking and keeping water out.
The dwelling was raised above the swamp level, creating a distinct separation from the damp ground below.
Its walls, a stark black, felt rough yet emanated a comforting warmth.
The distinct aroma of scorched wood evoked memories of the distant fire from the previous night, strangely soothing her anxious heart.
The wind sighed through the swamp.
In times past, such a nocturnal breeze would slice through simple cloth like razors, chilling the very bones.
Tonight, however, the clay and dry grass mixture had effectively sealed every opening.
In a corner sat a small, rudimentary tin stove, its edges bearing the marks of a hammer.
Once coal was ignited, a gentle warmth began to permeate the space.
Huddled within the house, Little Mud clasped her knees, experiencing, for the first time, a night free from the biting cold and pervasive dampness.
The house seemed to float over the swamp, an ungainly yet steadfast vessel.
As she lay down, her eyes remained wide open, resisting sleep for a prolonged period, fearing this newfound comfort was merely an elaborate dream.
At that moment, the door creaked open softly.
Little Mud instinctively stiffened but detected no trace of the familiar stench of decay and cheap alcohol.
Pete stooped to enter, still clad in his uniform jacket, its cuffs smudged with mud.
He carried several roasted potatoes, their skins cracked and steaming invitingly.
"Why aren't you asleep?" Pete inquired, moving closer. He offered a potato, then paused, asking, "Are you still hungry?"
Little Mud’s eyes fluttered. She instinctively reached out a hand, then quickly retracted it.
Pete did not withdraw his own hand. Instead, he gently took her wrist, turned her hand over, and examined it closely in the dim glow of the stove fire, noting the cleanliness of her fingernails.
"Well cleaned, that's acceptable," he affirmed, before finally placing the warm potato into her palm.
Its heat radiated through her hand. Little Mud swallowed, lowered her head, and softly voiced her question: "Why... are you being so kind to me?"
Pete considered her question for a moment before replying, "Because within Red Tide, children represent the future's potential. If a seed fails to sprout, the fault lies not with the seed itself, but with the planter."
He rose, brushing residual ash from his hands. "Tomorrow evening, there will be a lesson. We'll cover reading, basic mathematics, and the system for exchanging labor points for goods. Ensure you attend."
The door closed once more. Little Mud cradled the warm potato, her gaze lowered, and took a tentative bite.
It was searingly hot, yet she held onto it tightly.
......
The subsequent evening, candlelight illuminated the central square.
The wind had subsided compared to the daytime, yet the flames within the lanterns still danced unsteadily.
Pete stood upon a makeshift wooden platform, affixed a crudely fashioned wooden board, and began to sketch with charcoal, creating marks of varying intensity.
People gradually congregated, a mix of adults and children.
Thorne, despite enduring a full day of labor that left his shoulders aching, remained at the periphery.
Pete selected a piece of charcoal, then addressed the young orphan he had encountered the previous night: "What is your name?"
Little Mud hesitated, her instinct to lower her head taking over.
"I don't have a name," she whispered. "Everyone calls me Little Mud."
Pete shook his head. "Mud is found on the ground," he stated, his charcoal moving across the board with a scratching sound. "You are someone who stands tall."
"This characters translate to Lily," Pete declared, pointing to the two symbols. "In the Northern Territory, it signifies a type of flower – one that blooms even in the Permafrost."
He spun around, his gaze settling on her.
"From this day forward, that shall be your designation."
Lily gazed at the board, at the name now irrevocably hers.
Pete's stay was brief.
He sketched a few modest lines beneath the name, followed by a series of numbers.
"Acquiring literacy and numeracy skills isn't for immediate gain," he explained. "These are investments for the future."
"A future where you stand in workshops, behind accounting desks, or atop bridges and dams, without needing to defer to others, asking, 'Is this rightfully mine? Should I claim it?'"
With his charcoal, he etched a square box upon the board.
"Individuals adept at arithmetic, capable of managing accounts and overseeing personnel, those who can decipher written texts, will be the ones to read blueprints, serve as foremen, don respectable uniforms, and escape a lifetime of physical toil."
Pete's eyes lifted, scanning the faces that gradually grew clearer.
"Currently, you are unlettered. However, the roads to be constructed, the cities that will be established, and the factories requiring management in this region, will all demand individuals with the gift of reading."
