“Do you know what I was thinking?” Predslava asked.
“Hm?”
“What do I even call this place if someone asks me where I live?”
“Who’s… going to ask you that?”
“I don’t know! Friends.”
I shook my head.
Since when do you have friends…?
It'd be kind of mean to say that, I realized.
“You’re right, though,” I said. “‘That place by the ice palace’ doesn’t cut it.”
“Right? So what is it?”
I glanced outside through the window. “We’re in the middle of the North…”
As much as I loved it, this land couldn’t prosper on its own.
“Nordrstjarna.” I smiled. “The North Star.”
“That’s… Nordic!” She bounced up and down, frustrated. “Why the hell is it in a foreign language I barely understand?!”
It was true. Only the humans from Bjornhavn spoke Nordic around here.
I chuckled. “Because I have an idea.”
***
I had grown fond of Snoutling pidgin. So, with a heavy heart, I announced my intention to replace our ‘mother language’ with Nordic in the great hall.
My new household staff, or ‘witch’s hut folk’ as they called themselves, exchanged glances. There were thirty of them, Grommo being my lieutenant.
“Other talk…?” they asked.
“We need access to Bjornhavn’s trade like the other tribes. It’s the only way we can acquire southern goods and actually repay our trappers for their contribution in this arrangement.”
I hadn’t seen Snoutlings any of the three times I was there. A thick barrier stood in the way; language, prejudice, knowledge asymmetry, whatever it was that held them back; I wished to build a bridge over it.
Grommo scratched his nose. “Too hard?”
“Hm… everyone busy with turnip harvest, Witch,” he said apologetically. “That was bad.”
I lifted my hand. “I don’t want to drag anyone from their work; a few volunteers will suffice. It’s going to be a slow process; that’s why I’m bringing this up while we’re still dealing with food security.”
We needed to start somewhere. A small caravan of Snoutling peddlers selling pelts in Bjornhavn would begin to warm up relations, and perhaps one day we could, who knew, establish permanent merchant quarters there.
Grommo nodded. “Who I fetch for other talk?”
“Look for ten—this many.” I showed him all my fingers. “Young Snoutlings who don’t seem content with their current occupation and offer them this opportunity.”
I also need to teach them basic arithmetic, I almost forgot.
I didn’t think I could teach more than ten at once efficiently on my own, since I'd never done that kind of job before.
He turned to leave.
“Wait!” I said, stopping him in his tracks. “I’d like to include you in this course as well.”
His eyes widened, features twisting in worry. “Me?!”
I smiled sheepishly. “It’d please me greatly to teach you, Grommo. You’re my right hand.”
He choked. “W-witch teach?”
My eyebrow arched. “Yes…? Is that a problem?”
“No!” Grommo bolted out of the palace. “I be back very fast! Other talk is best talk!”
My jaw dropped. “Whoa… Nice.”
Thankfully, the Snoutlings didn’t seem attached to their pidgin—or at least that’s what I concluded from that eager display.
Either way, my mind raced; other matters were at hand.
Predslava rolled into the room with a piece of parchment. “Good news and bad news!”
“What is it?”
“Which one do you want first?”
“Maybe the bad one…?” I said.
“Hm… the bad one doesn’t make sense without the context of the good, now that I think about it.”
I facepalmed. “Just give me the good news, then.”
She sprang up proudly. “The census is done!”
“Really? That was fast.”
After I took over, we reclassified the old tribes as families, each still numbering around thirty to fifty Snoutlings.
“I see…” I held my chin.
That’s lower than my estimates. We might end up with fewer pelts for ourselves.
“The bad news is that none of that matters!” She threw the parchment away. “Another migrant tribe of thirty or so just arrived in town. They are impressed but confused as hell, and I don’t know how to fill them in on the lore. I’m assuming we’re letting them stay…?”
“Of course, that’s a non-issue if they swear fealty. All Snoutlings are welcome.” I signaled to one of the household staff. “Bring them to the palace, please.”
“Ye’.” He set off with a nod.
I turned to Predslava. “Was that the bad news…?”
“Of course! All this work for nothing.”
I shook my head.
“When are we going to war?” she asked, making me realize I had buried our military obligations under a tall pile of other priorities.
“We agreed to give the Grayfangs 40 days of military service per year.” I sighed. “We ought to prepare for it while we can.”
“Don’t worry about it—I’ll drill them good!” Predslava chuckled. “Hoo-ha! Hoo-ha!”
“No. We can’t afford drilling an army. That’d take the Snoutlings out of the fields.”
She deflated. “Aw…”
I leaned back on my ice chair and thought.
Back in Vesmeria, they had a knight service system; each fief had to provide a set number of mounted men. Commoners were taxed to furnish mercenaries.
We didn’t have that luxury in Nordrstjarna. A levied militia would have to do it.
“Tell them I’ll require each family to provide this many males for war.” I showed the household three fingers. “They should be fit and bring their own spears for now. This is my first decree.”
One of the staff checked his hand, then trotted out of the palace.
“That's… 351 fighters, Katarina.” Predslava tilted. “Tiny force, no?”
“For Vesmeria, perhaps. But I don’t want to draft a thousand untrained Snoutlings and their grandmothers into a turf war between werewolves. This should be enough to show presence in the field while we do the actual fighting ourselves.”
A shy Snoutling tribe stopped at the gates and peeked inside the palace.
The chieftain slowly removed his headdress when he saw me.
“Welcome to Nordrstjarna.” I stood up with a smile. “Please don’t eat the deadly fruits to your left.”