The Harvest Tide Project (12 page)

‘A mug’d be just damned fine.’ she replied, only just remembering to keep her tone as gruff as possible.

Afraid that she wasn’t expressing enough masculinity, she spat on the floor for good measure. The landlord frowned at the feeble attempt.

‘Mind if I ask what age you are, sir?’

Thinking quickly, Hilspeth leaned over and sniffed his breath.

‘Older than that whiskey you keep for yourself,’ she retorted. ‘That’s not the cheap, watered-down rubbish I’m smelling off your customers.’

‘All right, all right, keep your voice down,’ the Traxean muttered.

‘A mug of ale, please.’

‘Right you are.’ With a charming smile, he took a clay mug from line of similar cups hanging from hooks above the bar, and poured some ale into it from a jug beneath the counter.

She thanked him and paid for the drink. She tasted it
tentatively
and was surprised to find it quite palatable.

A storyhouse was a place where travellers could come and earn a meal, and sometimes even a bed for the night by
telling
a story. Locals would buy them drinks and tobacco in
return for being entertained. The more entertaining the story, the more hospitality the traveller would enjoy. At the tables in the room, men from all over the land were telling tales of adventure, and pranks, and war, and exotic places. Those who kept the customers happy would be offered a place to stay for a few nights by the owners of the house. The room was noisy, and everyone had to talk at the top of their voice to be heard.

‘I must say, sir,’ the landlord commented, ‘you have the cleanest fingernails I’ve ever seen. They’re cleaner than my wife’s. How do you keep them so?’

Hilspeth smiled and self-consciously drew her hands back into the cloak. She could see the guards now, quite near her, listening to a Parsinor who was gesturing excitedly with his huge hands to illustrate his account of being chased by a maddened raspidam. A stocky, muscled figure with natural, hinged armour, and webbing holding an assortment of tools and weapons, he commanded a large gathering. She decided to wait for him to finish. She wouldn’t get a word in edgeways with him going on like this anyway.

‘… so it cornered me in this gully. I had no way out, my axe lost, my sword broken and this thing bearing down on me, drooling, so close now I could smell the stink on its breath from the last man who had crossed it. All six claws reaching out to tear me limb from limb, and I stared it in the eye and screamed my curses at it, and picked up a rock to put up a last fight when …’

He paused, dramatically to stare around the table at his audience, then lifted his left hand (the right was poised as if holding the aforementioned rock), and whispered hoarsely:

‘… it turned its head, just for a heartbeat exposing its ear …’

At this, some of the men at the table nodded and smiled knowingly, for the ears were the only weak points in a
raspidam’s
thick, hairy hide. The Parsinor roared:

‘… and I flung that rock with all my might, hitting it just where the jawbone meets the earlobe! It fell and blocked up the gully, barring my way, weak but still alive. Strong enough still to lunge forward and get its jawblades around me. It bit down, but couldn’t break through my armour. We were held together, and it was only stunned. I was dead as soon as it came back to its senses. I thrashed around, but it had no effect. Then, as it started to growl, I tried one last thing in desperation. I took a big bite of its tongue!’

Some men laughed at this; others recoiled in disgust.
Hilspeth
was beginning to feel mildly sick.

‘… That woke it up, but it made it open its mouth as well. It dropped me and let out a roar like this …’ He held his own tongue and bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘I could taste its blood and spit in my mouth, bitter and poisonous, but I was free, and I finished it off with another rock to the ear. The thing toppled over like a tree and died noisily. I ate some of the meat, sold the skin and made tools from its bones.’

He finished by smacking his big hand down on the table, and there were cheers and some clapping. In the brief,
relative
silence that followed while the Parsinor took a gulp of his drink, one voice chipped in:

‘Rubbish.’

With that, the entire room fell silent. The Parsinor slammed his mug on the table, and, kicking his stool back, stood up to his full height, which was head and shoulders above anyone else in the room. Hilspeth noticed the four stout legs that ended in only two feet (two legs, one in front
of the other, for each foot) and the wide, heavy body that made Parsinors such a formidable race. He glared at the speaker and growled in a voice low with menace;

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

It was one of the guards that Hilspeth was hoping to talk to. Her heart sank.

‘Only a very poor, desperate liar could come up with such an outlandish tale,’ the soldier said. ‘You should make yourself scarce, rather than wasting our time with rubbish like that.’

‘Sir, I think you should perhaps get behind the bar,’ the landlord muttered to her.

‘Sorry?’

‘I think you might like to get behind the bar,’ he urged her again.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ll give you one chance to take that back,’ snarled the Parsinor to his accuser.

‘Liar,’ came the reply.

The landlord seized Hilspeth’s cloak and dragged her over the counter just as havoc broke loose. He smiled at her as she landed on the floor beside him, and he motioned at her to keep her head down.

‘It’s for the best,’ he shouted over the crash of bodies and furniture being tossed about the room. ‘It’ll quieten down soon enough.’

Hilspeth risked a glance over the top of the counter, and saw every man in the room involved in a free-for-all. Men were punching men, who were falling back and bumping into others, whom they hit for being there to bump into. Stools and tables were picked up and used as clubs, as well as anything else that came to hand. Nobody seemed to be
taking any sides; they just hit anyone who came along.

Ducking back down again, she found the landlord
whittling
the broken leg of a stool that had landed beside him. He was making some kind of fish.

‘Does this happen a lot?’ she asked.

‘On occasion.’ He shrugged, without looking up from his wood carving.

Holding her hat tight to her head, Hilspeth raised her head to watch the mayhem.

Outside, Taya and Lorkrin listened in amazement to the sounds of the fight.

‘She’s really serious about getting answers,’ Lorkrin gaped.

‘I didn’t think she had it in her,’ his sister added.

The Parsinor aimed the beaten, bruised soldier at a window, intent on throwing him out into the street, but he was knocked into, and the unfortunate man hit the wall instead.

Another came at the storyteller, who side-stepped and brought up his arm, the guard running into it as if it were the low-hanging branch of a tree. His feet swung forward and he dropped square on his back.

A third piled towards the Parsinor, but fared no better. His head clamped in one huge hand, he was lifted off his feet and thrown across the room.

The fourth soldier took no chances. He drew a
double-headed
axe, and, pushing other brawlers out of his way, he advanced on the bigger man.

The Parsinor was wearing weapons, but he did not pick any. Instead he waited, shoving back the fighters around him and standing his ground. The soldier charged, swinging the weapon with all his strength, but the Parsinor stepped to
the side, snatched the axe and spun in a circle, taking his opponent with him. Then he dropped to his knee, flipping the soldier over onto his back and slamming him to the floor. He had his fist raised to deliver the finishing blow, when Hilspeth cried out for him to stop.

The group of brawlers fell into some confusion, and the Parsinor hesitated as he looked around for the source of the female cry.

‘There’s a woman in here,’ someone said.

Suddenly the mood changed to one of annoyed
embarrassment
, and the men pulled apart and started brushing themselves down. There was the sound of one or two men getting a last thump in, but most were righting tables and straightening stools.

Hilspeth stood up and took off her hat with an apologetic smile. The men mumbled under their breath, and threw sour glances at her. The landlord was very upset.

‘Now really, madam. This is most improper. Really, the rules are very specific. This is a men-only house. I’m sure you saw the signs. This is very bad for business, you being here. Really.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She gave him a tight smile, then said to the Parsinor, ‘I really do need to talk to that man before you
pulverize
him. Seeing as you have already put his three friends beyond reach. Would you mind?’

The Parsinor groaned, but turned the soldier’s head to face Hilspeth, asking:

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Just what kind of work is going on in that house he’s guarding?’ she said.

‘Well?’ the Parsinor asked the guard, who considered
refusing, then thought the better of it.

‘Just gardening,’ he wheezed. ‘Loads of people who can grow any kind of plant, they’re all doing something to do with bules and the esh … I don’t know what. Don’t know what all the fuss is about, to be honest.’

‘Is Shessil Groach in there?’

‘He’s the only one in there, now,’ the guard moaned. ‘He had escaped, and then he showed up out of nowhere last night. But they shipped all the other freaks back to Noran yesterday, so now he’s the only one there. He’s being guarded as if he’s the Prime Ministrate himself. Don’t ask me why. They don’t tell us anything. Look, if you don’t mind, you’re really hurting my head …’

The Parsinor let him go. He passed out and flopped to the floor.

‘Thanks very much,’ beamed Hilspeth. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

The Parsinor took a firm but gentle hold on her hand and led her towards the door.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘Let me show you out.’

She could feel everyone’s eyes on her back as she walked out, and the Parsinor’s grip left her under no illusions that it might be possible to stay around and chat. She was almost hauled to the door. When they stepped outside, Hilspeth tenderly placed the sleeping man’s hat back on his head, and turned about to find the two Myunans dumbstruck, gazing up at the Parsinor.

‘Aw, bowels!’ gasped Lorkrin.

‘Young man, where did you pick up language like that?’ said the Parsinor in a stern voice. ‘And I thought you two were staying at your uncle’s this summer?’

8 D
RAEGAR
D
OESN'T
H
ELP

The Parsinor's name was Draegar. He was apparently a friend of the Myunans' Uncle Emos and their parents.
Hilspeth
could not help but notice his lack of surprise at the fact that these two children were wandering around without adult supervision, a couple of days' walk from where they were supposed to be. The two shape-changers had made excuses and pretended to be coy and innocent but he was having none of it. Draegar obviously knew them quite well. He was suspicious of Hilspeth, and did not try to hide it.

‘Their uncle will be beside himself with worry,' he
rumbled
. ‘He knows what they're capable of.'

‘Do they wander off a lot, then?' Hilpeth asked.

‘Stop talking about us as if we're not here,' Taya snapped. ‘We're not babies.'

‘Normally after they have done something they are likely to be severely punished for,' Draegar supplied.

‘Sometimes we wander off just because we want to,' Taya interrupted again. ‘What's wrong with that?'

The Myunans were trudging ahead of the other two along the street. Draegar had suggested they start back
towards Uncle Emos's farm. The shape-changers had tried to object, but his tone had left scant room for argument.
Hilspeth
was walking with them as far as the outskirts of town, hoping she might convince the Parsinor to help her get to Shessil.

As they made their way along the street, she had time to get a closer look at him. His shell and the other armoured parts of his body were knobbly and sand-coloured, well suited to the desert where the Parsinor tribes made their home. His skin was a redder shade of the same colour. His eyes were lined with long, curving lashes that she supposed were for keeping out the dust and sand; his nose was quite flat and he could close his nostrils when he needed to. His ears were tiny and they too could close up. His wide skull was covered with thick tendrils of braided hair. His feet, with their two sets of ankles, were long and wide and encased in the same hard shell; his hands and arms were huge, even in proportion to the rest of his body, and you were left in no doubt about his strength. He carried a battle-axe and a broadsword in sheaths on his back.

‘Have you any idea what they've done this time?' she pressed. ‘I think they've been messing around down in the sewers. There's a chance that Shessil Groach was tangled up in all of this because of them. Couldn't you help? Just help me get inside that building.'

‘We didn't do anything!' Lorkrin protested. ‘She doesn't know what she's talking about.'

‘It gets worse every time.' Draegar shook his head. ‘And interfering strangers don't help. You would do well to steer clear of them in the future. They are a mischievous pair of rascals, but Emos is a close friend and I would not have any
family of his put in danger by letting them mess with
soldiers
. The Noranians rule this land, and they are a hard race. They are not people you want to cross. Noranians have no honour; they act out of greed and self-interest, but they have power. You do not. Whatever it is you want from them, these children are not going to be involved. And for your own safety, I suggest you let it go.'

Lorkrin had stopped to look at a stall displaying
monstrous
animal puppets. Draegar prodded him and he started walking again.

‘I can't do that. Shessil is a friend of mine,' Hilspeth
continued
. ‘And they're holding him prisoner. I think he has been a prisoner for years and he doesn't even realise it.'

‘Then maybe it would be better if he never did,' Draegar commented.

‘I know how he bloody feels,' Lorkrin muttered.

Groach sank deep into the suds of the bath and groaned as all the bruises and stiffness faded from his body. He lathered up his face and took a straight razor from the wooden cup on the side, starting at his right sideburn and shaving down his face. He missed the thick beard he had worn before his escape, but it felt good and cool and neat to be
clean-shaven
. He considered for a moment the possibility of
growing
a moustache, but decided against it and shaved the
stubble
off his upper lip with a few short strokes. Botanists wore beards; it was a kind of unspoken rule. Except for the women, of course, unless they were very unfortunate. But he felt he had grown since his escape, that he was
something
more than just a botanist now.

He thought about Hilspeth, still being held in the barracks. Picturing her lively, brown, freckled face, he wished he could see her again, and hear her voice, and he realised he was frightened for her, locked up in those cells. At least that Grulk was dead. He should have felt sorry for the woman soldier, but he didn't. He wasn't sorry at all.

The other men who had been arrested for looking like him had been released; that only left Hilspeth. But he was sure he could get her let off – she hadn't done anything wrong anyway, and he was quite an important man now. He had made the esh-bound bubule bloom, and now he was being taken home to the project, in the city-state of Noran. This house was conveniently close to the part of the esh where the esh-bound bubule grew, but the main
workshops
, greenhouses and tanks were in Noran itself.

Apparently, all his friends had already left for the city, and, this evening, he was to be taken to join them. He looked
forward
to the reunion. He wondered how that stubborn old dog Hovem was doing, and Rufred, and Carston, the lunatic. The stories he had to tell them! They would never believe him. But they would believe him about the Harvest Tide. He would make them believe. Picking up the scrubbing brush and the nailbrush, he played boats in the soapy water.

There were four guards standing around him as he waited in the hallway later in the afternoon for the wagon that would take him to Noran. Six more stood to attention
outside
. He wondered what all the security was for – surely not for him? It did not make sense.

Mungret walked down the corridor towards him.

‘Have you got everything, Shessil? Are there any notes or samples you might need to bring? It's a long drive to Noran.'

‘No, I don't think so….' He shifted the rucksack of clothes and the few personal things that he owned on his shoulder. ‘We're driving all the way? Isn't it quicker by esh? Oh, I left my notes at the Moffets' house in Crickenob, but I don't need them. I can do without.'

‘We'll have them picked up anyway,' Mungret assured him. ‘The Moffets did you say? In Crickenob? And to answer your question, the esh is not the safest place to be right now.' He indicated to one of the guards to take Groach's bag. Groach obediently handed the soldier his luggage and found he now had nothing to do with his hands, so he stuck his thumbs in his belt and stared at his feet.

A soldier who was keeping watch at the door gave a signal. Mungret straightened Groach's tunic collar and brushed down his shoulders.

‘Now, just act yourself. Don't try and impress him. He doesn't like that. Address him as ‘Prime Ministrate', and do not speak when he is speaking. Answer him promptly, and keep your answers short and to the point. Don't make any sudden hand movements – his bodyguard will be watching, and he is very protective. Too protective sometimes. Be polite at all times, and do not raise your voice above a civil speaking tone. Now, go.'

‘What are you talking about?' Groach protested. ‘Are you telling me I'm meeting the Prime Ministrate? I thought I was going back to Noran.'

‘You are going back to Noran with the Prime Ministrate,' Mungret said in his ear as he pushed him out the door. He was led by a soldier out to a waiting carriage. Its door was held open by a huge creature with a mane of orange hair tied back in a ponytail, and three pairs of nostrils, one above
the other. It had yellow skin and stark, ice-blue eyes with no pupils. Groach regarded the creature with fear as he
clambered
inside the vehicle.

‘He is a bit of a monster, isn't he?' said a warm voice from the interior of the carriage. ‘Don't let Cossock bother you, Shessil. He's a Barian, a frightening-looking brute, but an honourable one. He's a good man to have on our side.'

At the back of the lush, purple, velvet-lined cabin sat a handsome, athletic-looking man in the black and gold robes of government. He shook Groach's hand with a firm grip and motioned him to sit opposite him. The door closed, and through the back window, Groach could see Cossock jump aboard the vehicle. And Cossock could see him. Noticing the smaller man's nervousness, the Noranian leader reached back and closed the curtains on the window, blocking the bodyguard out.

‘Do you know who I am, Shessil?'

‘Em … the Prime Ministrate?'

‘That's right. I am Rak Ek Namen. I have a lot of titles. If Mungret were here, he would no doubt list them all, but Prime Ministrate is the only one that matters. At least to me.' Namen folded his hands across his lap, and Groach found himself in the full glare of those intelligent eyes.

‘You solved the esh-bound bubule problem, didn't you, Shessil?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you know Groundsmaster Hovem was dead?'

‘What? … No! What happened? How did he die?'

‘A terrible accident. When the bubule in the tank you had been working on bloomed, he tried to lower himself in to take samples. He slipped, smashing the tank in his fall. The
whole thing came down on top of him. It was a horrible sight.'

Groach felt a lump rise in his throat. To hide the tears welling in his eyes, he turned to take in the passing buildings that led to the outskirts and walls of Hortenz. He was not sure how to feel. He was shocked; it did not seem real. And it had been his tank. If he had not run away, Hovem might still be alive.

‘You mustn't feel responsible,' Namen reassured him. ‘It was an accident.'

‘I suppose,' Groach whispered.

‘He was devoted to the project. He would have wanted you to continue your work.'

‘Yes, I suppose he would. Of course, we have to go on.'

‘So I can count on you to continue? I can tell we're almost there – it's almost within reach.'

‘Yes, it is,' breathed Groach. ‘Prime Ministrate, can I ask you a question?'

‘Of course, Shessil.'

‘What is almost within reach? What is all the work for? What will you do with it?'

‘I'm glad you asked,' Namen sat forward and unfolded his hands. ‘Let me tell you how it's going to be. Let's talk about the future. I'm sure a man of your intellect will appreciate it.'

Taya and Lorkrin were walking ahead of Draegar and
Hilspeth
. They were both feeling thoroughly miserable. Taya's colour had even turned slightly bluer than normal. Their uncle would be absolutely furious with them when they got back to his house. They were sure to be punished, probably
by being made to weed the garden and paint fences and things like that. There always seemed to be loads of work that needed doing whenever they had been up to anything. On top of this, they were beginning to feel ashamed of what they had done to Shessil back in the sewers. Then there was the fact that Shessil still had the quill from Uncle Emos's studio, and that there was a large hole in the town of Hortenz that somebody would have to fix. The more they thought about it, the worse the whole affair seemed, and the worse it seemed, the more they each wished they could do something to make things better.