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They do find civilization, is the thing.
The Calamity kicked the earth apart like Mother herself had slammed her fist down on Caelondia and the Terminals in a fit of anger against loss, throwing the stone and dirt and all that lived atop it into the sky; the Terminals had been thrown highest, the Kid remembers, the earth of their former tunnels held together by the conductors, the evidence of destruction and failed efforts at survival all around them.
(The Ura ran warm enough to be hot, the Kid finds out, huddled between Zia and Zulf on the Bastion before The Incident, back when Zia’s father’s journal was just a curiosity piece and not the crux of a too-bloody, unnecessary fight; between the both of them, they’d produced enough heat that the fire had been almost unnecessary. The Kid had had to admit defeat after a few minutes, squeezing out from between them to sit on the grass instead.)
Despite the snow, with the Bastion Evac’d and long-gone, the Kid hopes that the Ura will be able to rebuild, recover, and restart in their own way.
(Anything else he could think beyond that he drowns in mouthfuls of bourbon; what’s done is done, and they’d all made terrible choices. Regrets can kill a man as easy as a pistol to the head, and it’s better to think of the present and what he can do for everyone on the Bastion than of the destruction he’d brought on a people already crippled beyond relief.)
Caelondia and the Terminals were the center; beyond that, the height to which the land rises at the call of the city’s Seals tapers until, the Kid supposes, it wouldn’t rise at all.
(He’s glad that the rest of the world wasn’t so affected--not just because it would be lonely to be the last four people excepting the Ura on the earth, but also for the death toll it would imply. He may not have had a direct hand in the Calamity, but he knows someone who was and someone who’s father was, and he wouldn’t wish the weight of that heavy burden on anyone.)
And sometimes, on those upflung hunks of rock, they find people.
Raos was a city of the sun, built golden and shining; they’re far enough away that the ash doesn’t reach them for the most part--and, amazingly enough, they look upon their upflung existence as a blessing of favor from their gods, not having lost many to the Calamity. They’re brown-skinned people with brown hair and golden eyes, and Zia, Zulf, the Kid, Rucks, they all draw attention despite not having docked at the city proper with the Bastion.
It’s situations like this where Zulf shines; he puts away the edges of melancholy that stain his composure and turns on the diplomatic charms. Armed with his liquid smile and silver tongue (as well as a few crystals from Caelondia and some of the things the Kid’s scavenged up), he starts in the trading district and ends up with fair lodging, food, and supplies by the end of the day.
The Bastion needs to be taken care of as well, is the thing, so they make these stops, restock, take a breather like a ship coming in to port; Zia and Rucks spend the evening sorting through what Zulf’s bought, doublechecking that they have everything they need, while the Kid makes bets with the men downstairs at the bar of the inn, beating them at darts and billiards and tests of strength, collecting his winnings with a flash of white teeth in a scarred and tan-dark face. Zulf hovers nearby, more-than ready to break up a fight with a few well-delivered words, dispelling hostilities if it becomes necessary, but is thankfully unneeded that night.
(All four of them take the time to luxuriate in the availability of hot water.)
Morning has Rucks, Zia, the Kid, beginning to ferry supplies back to the Bastion, Zulf guarding the diminishing pile until there’s only a few crates left; the Kid appears then and drags him off by the elbow, disappearing into the bustle of the marketplace as the other two finish up.
The Kid comes back with much less of his winnings money, a full backpack, and a sneaky, self-satisfied sort of grin on his face, while Zulf seems torn between blushing and the first honest smile he’s worn since he’s set foot on Raos.
They set sail in the afternoon, and the Kid pulls out what he’d claimed from the market that night around the campfire: good rosin-wax for Zia’s strings, a set of wrenches the perfect size for her hands; Rucks receives pipe tobacco and paper in the form of a few empty journals; Zulf gets inks, pencils, a journal of his own, and a sextant to read the stars with. The Kid brings one new music disc of local songs to the gramophone and a few new salves to the infirmary; one, he says, is for cracked hands, an herbal lotion to soothe work-gained roughness; the other he’s less sure about, it being a local invention, but he shrugs and says he was sure they’d find a use for the semi-viscous substance and that it wasn’t any skin off his knuckles anyway, since the lady he’d bought the salves off of had given it to him after he’d purchased the other one (though he doesn’t mention the wink or conspiratorial look she’d exchanged with Zulf when she had).
It’s a good haul, a good run, and over the horizon there’ll be another city, another port of rest--but now, after everything, it’s too soon to stop; wanderlust chews at all their bones; they’ll sail on until they find a port to call home.