Tiller brought Pod with him for the purpose of making introductions. Pod had been adamant that he had never done anything to piss off the ogre clan. There was evidence of this: the ogre shopkeeper had treated them well and given the best prices up until now. Tiller was apprehensive that the bad blood with the ogres would spoil this arrangement going forward. He was also not exactly brimming with confidence that Pod really did have a good relationship with the ogres. The little drunkard seemed to have made trouble with half of Medley and Tiller approached Cronk’s farm with substantial apprehension. He was taking a roll of the dice by bringing Pod, but he felt that he was already in a position of such disadvantage that things could hardly get worse.

  He had opted not to bring any of his muscle (Cutter, Stone Robot, or Norris) because they would likely make no difference. He was striding into the lion’s den. If things went badly here he doubted there would be any way to survive the encounter. And bringing armed fighters would probably send the opposite message to what he intended.

  Cronk’s island of land in the white blankness was much more substantial than Tiller’s. It stretched for what looked to be several acres. As they drew nearer he saw the lumbering shapes of ogres moving around. He could see cattle, perfectly picturesque black and white cattle, standing and grazing. The ogres moved among them, herding them. Others carried tools and worked the soil. Others just stood and watched himself and Pod as they approached.

  Tiller mused, “That’s a big island…”

  Pod mumbled, “Oh shit, now you sound like my wife. Cronk’s got a nice big space, why don’t we have a nice big space. Cronk makes lots of money, why don’t we have lots of money. Cronk doesn’t piss himself while he sleeps, why—”

  Tiller cut him off. “I was saying, it’s big, but it hardly looks big enough to support all those ogres and cattle.”

  Pod cast him a side-eyed glance. “What are you sayin’? Is this more of your, whaddya call it, iss-ick-eye bull?”

  Tiller pursed his lips. “Yeah. I guess it is. I don’t really know farming, but I have the feeling a few acres like that would be worth diddly squat back on Earth. There wouldn’t be enough grass to feed enough cows, and the number of cows wouldn’t make enough milk to be worth anything. But then, I can put seeds in the ground here and have a full harvest 10 or 20 days later, so I guess grass works the same? And cows could milk more?”

  Pod just shook his head and kept walking.

  Tiller felt the tension grow in his shoulders as he drew nearer. After debating, he had brought his shovel. The white seemed to be safe since the demise of Ripper, but he didn’t want to be undefended and he doubted a simple tool like a shovel over his shoulder would do anything to alarm an army of ogres.

  They drew closer, Tiller expecting to be stopped, attacked, confronted. Instead he was met by nothing other than a silent staring bulky ogre, nearly as big as Donk. The big beast stood on the edge of the island and just wordlessly pointed, the long tree-trunk arm and gnarled finger gesturing towards the cluster of wooden buildings in the centre of the island.

  They walked on, mounting the island and walking through the grass. This farm was not like his. Nothing was thrown together. The wooden fences were perfect, like something from a painting or a video game. The houses and buildings at the centre were picturesque and expertly assembled.

  Tiller breathed, “Wow… you could really live in a place like this.”

  Pod said, “Don’t know how to break this to you, but I think Maeve expects you’re gonna turn our place into something like this.”

  Tiller stared around, eyes wide, “Maybe I am… It’s going to take a while, but damn does this look professional… and profitable. How well off are these guys?”

  Pod shrugged, “Fucked if I know. Money never seems to be a problem for ’em. They make cash from meat and milk, got a store in town, got a share in one of the mines. They do pretty damn well for themselves.”

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  Tiller’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey. The cows don’t have bands on their legs!”

  Pod shook his head slowly, “Course they don’t. How stupid would it be if they did. Whoever heard of a stone-banded cow?”

  Tiller said, “The pipkin has a band. Ripper had a band. I thought everything had a band.”

  Pod was clearly exasperated. “Not farm animals. Not proper pests like rats or mice. Not everything has a band.”

  Tiller mused, “I suppose it would make it too easy to get sigils… if you could just farm cattle for sigils then it would completely deflate the value of low-level sigils, make them worthless…”

  Pod glanced up at him, “The way you’re talking you make it sound like the whole thing was planned. There’s no system here. It’s not on purpose. Just the way the world works.”

  Tiller kept looking around. “I’m not so sure… everything seems to have had some kind of weird design to it since I came here…”

  A cluster of figures had gathered among the buildings. As they approached Tiller counted six ogres. Donk and Tonk were among them. Of the other four, three were fighting classes, a stone and two clays. He was trying to get a sense of their fighting strength if the feud really turned sour in the future. The sheer number of ogres he was seeing filled him with hopeless dread.

  The sixth ogre turned to face them. He was not particularly tall, but he was very wide. A huge doughy form, with grey whiskers, held its arms wide as they reached him. “Well. Greetings, neighbor. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you myself, you being new and all. I’m Cronk. Nice to meet a fellow farmer.”

  Tiller was taken aback, and felt no small suspicion at the warm greeting. He shook the offered hand, his strong farmer’s palm swallowed by the gigantic grip of the ogre. “Good to meet you, Cronk… the name’s Tiller.”

  Cronk nodded, “Oh, I know, I know. Been hearing about you. My lad with the store in town’s been telling me about you. You grow fine produce, by all accounts. Don’t mind seeing you set up shop over there. We don’t do much by way of plants over here, hard to keep the store stocked.”

  Tiller glanced to Cronk’s wrist. An Iron band hung there. The symbol on the band was the same as Tiller’s. Cronk was not a specialized class. He was a farmer, just as Tiller was.

  Cronk saw the look and smiled. The smile seemed as warm and genuine as a look could be. Tiller tried to see beyond it, to see if it was a pretence that would lull him into danger. But all he could see was a happy, friendly face.

  Cronk said, “That’s right. I’m a good old-fashioned farmer too. Spent my life reaching Iron. One of the proudest things I’ve ever achieved. That and this place.” He spread his arms wide to encapsulate the farm, brimming with ogres, cattle and activity.

  Tiller hesitated. He’d come to parlay for an easing between them, to try and convince them that they hadn’t committed the murder of Bonk. He was curious though. He was drawn in by Cronk’s easy manner and open face. “Um… If you’re a farmer, and you can grow produce just like I do… why don’t you?”

  Cronk chuckled, “Oh, I did. I did. Hang on a tick, we’ve offered you nothing. Come sit with me. My old bones aren’t up to standing around with this anymore.”

  Cronk gestured and lumbered over to the veranda of one of the wooden houses. Tiller glanced at Pod and then shrugged, following. Cronk settled himself in a mighty chair. Tiller hopped up into another ogre-sized chair. Pod took some scrambling before he managed to climb into a third. The table was laid out as if in anticipation of their arrival. A pot of tea, steam rising from the spout. Beautiful ware, cups, plates and cutlery. A platter of sliced steak and cowboy biscuits, a boat of hot gravy. A single bottle of amber liquid. Tiller’s stomach grumbled.

  One of the clay fighters moved to offer them tea. Tiller accepted, eying the steak. He could smell it. He hadn’t eaten anything nearly as good as steak in all his time on SCAPE.

  Cronk said, “That’s better. Do help yourselves. And you, little neighbor, got a bottle of the good stuff straight from Dave’s.”

  Cronk offered a pour of the whiskey and Pod accepted. Tiller considered reaching for the steak. It could hardly be poisoned. What use would an army of ogres have for poisoning him? If they chose to they could destroy him in a moment.

  Cronk said, “I did used to farm produce. Loved it, in fact. Tomatoes especially. Oh, I did love growing tomatoes. Nothing in this world quite as fine as a slice of a really ripe tomato with a little salt and pepper.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  Cronk flashed his palms in a gesture, “The family grew. More mouths to feed, but more hands to work. The lads all seemed to come out with ranching classes or something else more suited to cattle. A farming class can adapt. So I adapted. It’s worked out pretty well.”

  Tiller looked again at Cronk’s wrist as he scanned the sigils there. He couldn’t identify them but he saw more than one bore a symbol involving blades of grass, and another couple included the shape of cattle.

  Cronk saw the inspection and tapped his band. “When you’re growing cows, you’re not growing cows at all. You’re growing grass. If you keep the grass flowing it’s most of the work.”

  Tiller nodded, looking around again at the lush fields.

  Cronk took in a deep breath. “Anyway, probably best to get down to why you’re here. I suppose you came to talk about Bonk’s murder.”