The Harvest Tide Project (15 page)

‘How do you know all this? I’ve never even heard of Vusquids.’

‘Because a few years ago, Emos and I mapped their entire territory.’ Draegar grinned, showing his bad, yellow teeth. ‘That was an interesting bit of travelling, I can tell you.’

Still not sure what to expect, Hilspeth caught her breath as she heard something coming their way. It was big – of that she was sure. Peering up the tunnel, she could see the white froth of disturbed water in the poor light. It was heading in their direction. Draegar turned to face it.

‘Don’t worry. Vusquids are friendly. It won’t harm us. It just wants us out.’

A sleek shape emerged from the water in front of them. It had four short tentacles around its flat face, with four eyes positioned just behind them. Two fins stood out from its back, two along each side, and when it moved, Hilspeth could see there were another two along its belly. It was hard
to tell its colour in this light, but it appeared to be a bluish grey. It had no nose or mouth that she could see. Its tail was flat and wide, and had holes lining it top and bottom. Long thin tendrils stood out on all sides, never losing touch with the walls of the cavern. It studied them both for a moment, and then curled its tentacles around them. Hilspeth gasped, but Draegar patted her shoulder.

‘It’ll be all right. Just enjoy the ride.’

Before she had a chance to point out the likelihood of this, they were off. The thing stayed above the water so that they could breathe, but it tucked them in tight to its body. At first, its tail seemed to be pushing them along using a normal waving motion, but then Hilspeth saw jets of water blast from the holes along the edge and then they were rushing along with breathtaking speed.

‘Beats walking!’ roared Draegar, over the rumble of their
passage
through the water.

Hilspeth clung on tightly and waited for it all to be over.

The soldiers marched with purpose. It was at once a
frightening
and impressive sight to the residents of Crickenob. The squad of twenty Noranian men and women moved in perfect time; they could march like this all day.

When the squad turned off the main street and up the road that led towards the river, people came out of their houses to see where they were going. The troops stopped outside the Moffets’ house, and rumours started flying. All of the villagers knew that some relative or other of the Moffets had been arrested a few days earlier. Some knew that the man was no relation at all.

Mrs Moffet had already seen the soldiers and unlatched the door to save it from being smashed off its hinges. Instead it slammed hard against the wall when Forward-Batterer Wulms drove his shoulder into it. He was followed into the room by four soldiers.

‘What’s going on here?’ Mrs Moffet demanded. ‘There’s not a door that is safe when you lot are around.’

‘Where is your husband, madam?’

‘Down at the river, earning a living. You should try it
sometime
.’

‘You are charged with holding a fugitive from justice. These charges may be waived if you produce the documents he was carrying when he came here,’ Wulms announced,
battlehammer
held at the ready.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she barked back.

‘I advise you not to waste my time, madam,’ Wulms growled. ‘I don’t want to arrest you, but I will if I have to. The man who attacked one of our soldiers recently was staying here. He has told us that he left notes here. We are to retrieve them and bring them to Noran. If you do not tell us where they are, then I will have no choice but to search this building, take what we find, arrest you and your husband, and burn this house to the ground. Now, where are the documents?’

‘If our guest wants them, then let him come and collect them himself,’ Brock Moffet snapped from behind them, having rushed back to his home. ‘They are his property after all.’

‘Restrain him,’ Wulms said. Two soldiers pushed Moffet up against the wall beside the open door and a third fired his crossbow at the fisherman’s foot. A U-shaped bolt embedded itself with a thud in the floor across his instep and pinned his foot to the floor. There was a crack as the impact broke a bone
in his foot and he cried out in pain. He could not fall over because the trapped foot kept him pressed against the wall. Instead, he braced himself with the other leg and clutched the injured one to hold himself steady.

‘Leave him alone!’ his wife squealed. ‘I’ll give you the notes. For the love of the gods, just leave him be. Anything to get you bullying wretches out of our lives!’

She went to the kitchen dresser and took the leather satchel from the drawer. With an expression of disgust, she tossed it at the Forward-Batterer.

‘Is this all of it?’ he asked, snatching it out of the air.

‘What,’ she retorted. ‘You think we want you to come back? Take it and leave.’

‘If there is anything missing, we will come back, madam, be sure of that.’

‘Why aren’t you off fighting a battle somewhere,
Forward-Batterer
? Or are you not up to fighting alongside
real
soldiers? I expect pushing unarmed fishermen around is more your level.’

Wulms went a deep red, and looked about to hit her, but obviously thought the better of it. Waving to the others, he strode out of the house.

‘Hey!’ Mrs Moffet shouted after him. ‘What about Brock? Aren’t you going to cut him free?’

‘Any good blacksmith or carpenter will manage it, given a little time,’ the Forward-Batterer called back. ‘Time you might spend thinking about how you should talk to officers of the Noranian Armed Forces.’

She watched them march away, lips firmly pressed together. When they were out of sight around the corner, she released a small sob and turned back to the front door of her home.

‘Filliess, what’s happened? What was all that about?’ One of
her neighbours was scuttling up the street, half concerned, half eager for gossip. 

‘Fetch Quilliam,’ Mrs Moffet told her. ‘They’ve left Brock bolted to the floor. He’s hurt – a broken foot, I think – so we’ll need a treater as well. See who you can find.’

The other woman nodded and spun around, hurrying towards the small crowd that was gathering, and shouting orders. Filliess Moffet drew in a shaky breath and went back in to her husband. He was in agony from the pressure of the iron hoop over his foot, and was struggling to stay standing. If he fell with his foot held like that, he would snap his ankle. She let him lean on her shoulder, and held his head, kissing his cheek and pressing her face against his.

‘What was all that for?’ he gasped. ‘All that … for some notes … what was it for?’

‘I don’t know, my dear,’ she hushed him. ‘Quilliam’s on the way; he’ll have you free in no time. Just you hold on, now.’

‘I don’t understand these people,’ he said. ‘Really I don’t.’

11 T
HE
V
USQUID AND THE
D
OG
-P
EOPLE

Groach awoke to the sound of women singing. He opened his eyes, and was confused at first by what he saw: the large room with beautiful furniture and the morning light bursting through the stained-glass windows. He blinked and rubbed gummed-up eyelids while his thoughts returned to the night before. He was on his way back to Noran with the Prime Ministrate. They were staying overnight in a keep called Tabanark. He had never known such luxury. The bed was huge and soft, and he just wanted to go on sleeping in it. But he also wanted to know where the singing was coming from. It was sad, but uplifting, and the voices were sublime.

Jumping out of bed, he threw off his nightshirt and
hurriedly
got dressed. He was on his way out the door when he remembered the rubber plant. Picking it up off the bedside table, he left it back on the table in the hall where he had found it, and made his way off after the beautiful voices. He had got down to the ground floor when they stopped. He halted in mid-step, disappointed that he had missed them, but then they started to sing again, another song with a
happier
theme. He followed the sound along a corridor and into
a huge reception room where Rak Ek Namen sat in a
gilt-lined
, velvet chair, listening to two young ladies and an older woman, evidently their mother, singing in the direction of a fan of delicate hairs, which moved gently with the sound of the women’s voices.

The other end of the fan was attached to a device made up of brass cogs, levers and wheels, along with a mechanical hand that held a quill. A metronome kept time, and a rubber tube fed ink into the quill, which dashed across a piece of parchment in time to the women’s singing. On closer
examination
, Groach saw that it was writing down the musical notes of the song as they sang.

The song came to an end, and the Prime Ministrate turned his attention to the young botanist.

‘Good morning, Shessil. How did you sleep?’

‘Like a log, thank you, Prime Ministrate.’

‘The ladies of the house were just entertaining me with one of the local songs. Unfair that one family should have so much talent and beauty combined, don’t you think?’

The women blushed. The mother bowed her head towards Groach.

‘I hope you have been enjoying your stay in our home, sir,’ she said.

‘I’ve never experienced comfort or hospitality like it, madam. Thank you,’ he replied.

‘What do you think of my device, Shessil?’ Namen waved with his head towards the machine. ‘A marvelous invention. It cannot write words, but it can recognise any note. One of the ladies has kindly offered to fill in the lyrics for me. I
collect
music, you see. I spend a great deal of time travelling, and I like to bring back songs from all the places I visit.

Speaking of travelling, we must be on our way soon. The cook has fixed us some breakfast. You must have something to eat before we leave.’

‘Come with me, sir.’ One of the girls curtsied, and took his hand.

Groach was led into a dining room, the ‘breakfast room’ the girl called it, where he sat down at the head of a table that could easily seat twenty. Heavy, silver cutlery and
handcrafted
porcelain plates were set for himself and the Prime Ministrate, who sat at the other end. Silk napkins were folded neatly by the side. Two servants brought out platters of food, and Groach’s mouth watered at the sight of it. There were three kinds of bread, butter, cheese, plates of different kinds of sausage, slices of bacon, scrambled and fried eggs, mushrooms, kippers and fresh tomatoes.

It took some time to eat their fill. The Prime Ministrate reassured him that there was no rush. As he was cutting up some bread, Groach mentioned the rumbling he had heard in the night, and Namen smiled.

‘Let’s go up to the roof when you’re finished there.’

They finished the meal, and climbed the stairs to the top of the keep. Flags flew from the corners and battlements lined the walls. Walking around the roof, Groach could see that the keep was situated in the middle of a lake. But that was not the only surprise. For Groach could not work out how they had got out into the middle of it. Looking down at the gates of the courtyard, he could see no bridge, nor any sign of one on the shore. And yet he was sure that they had not crossed on a ferry last night. The keep was definitely a secure place. It must be almost impossible to attack, but how did people gain access to it?

As if reading his mind, the Prime Ministrate took him over to a turret in the corner, where a guard was unlocking the door. Inside was a collection of brass levers jutting up from the floor, and some gauges on the walls between the
windows
. Taking a position by the window facing to the front, the man clasped the release on the lever, and pulled it towards him. The building shuddered. Groach glanced at the Noranian leader’s face, but he did not appear to be alarmed, so Groach said nothing. The man pulled back another lever, and this time the keep actually moved.

Groach raced outside and saw that the entire island on which the keep was built was moving forwards towards the shore. His mouth hung open as the movement of the floor tickled his feet. He could barely believe his eyes.

‘The island sits on enormous rollers,’ the Prime Ministrate told him, moving up beside him without a sound. ‘Rather than build a bridge that would need to be destroyed in times of attack, or have the keep nearer the shore with only a drawbridge and risk having the gap bridged by invaders, the architects built an island that could move the whole fortress away from an attack. Tabanark is one of only a few of its kind in the world. You are standing in one of the safest places in the Noranian Empire.’

Groach was amazed at how smoothly the island moved. It would hardly have disturbed life in the keep. He could hear only a deep rumbling and feel a slight, but steady tremor.

‘It’s time for us to leave,’ Namen said to him. ‘Collect your things and I’ll meet you downstairs.’

The gate of the keep had connected with a bridgehead on the shore by the time they were getting ready to leave. The road ran out of the gate and onto the main highway as if the
fortress had never moved. A tight join could be seen at the foot of the gate and chains were strung up as loose railings on either side of the short bridge. The battlewagons started their engines and sat warming up while the Prime
Ministrate’s
coach was made ready. Groach climbed in, closely watched by Cossock, whose hostile stare was as threatening as ever. The Prime Ministrate stopped to thank their hosts graciously and invite them to visit him in Noran, then he jumped lightly into the cabin opposite Groach. No sooner had he settled down, than the coach started off, guarded in front and behind by its escort vehicles.

‘Do you play Pengence?’ he asked the botanist, as he arranged his robes beneath him.

‘Pardon, Prime Ministrate?’

‘Pengence, a game of strategy and tactics. Surely you’ve heard of it?’

‘I can’t say that I have. How do you play it?’ Groach asked.

‘I’ll have to show you. I think you’ll enjoy it. It will help pass the time away.’ Namen pulled out a polished,
brassbound
wooden box and opened it. Inside were about forty finely shaped figures, all made from different materials. Just from where he sat, Groach could see pieces made out of ebony, oak, soapstone, tin, steel, ivory and copper. Under the tray of figures, there was a wooden castle, about the size of a large man’s head, sitting in special mounts. He was struck by the appearance of the castle, for it did not seem to have a bottom. Turrets stuck straight out on all sides, the fine carving perfect down to the smallest brick. Walkways and staircases ran along the walls, doors could be opened and closed, and sections of the building could come away to reveal the interior. It was covered in match-sized holes, and
Groach watched with fascination as the Prime Ministrate took a sturdy foldaway table from under his seat, in the top of which were set four blocks of dull grey metal.

The Prime Ministrate unfolded the table and lifted the castle over it. He let go of the model, and Groach lunged
forward
to catch it, but stopped. To his astonishment, the castle floated freely above the table. It hung about a hand’s width above the metal blocks, turning gently. This was just as well, he saw, for without the shaped mounting in the box, the model had no flat surface you could call a bottom.
Whichever
way you turned it, it always had turrets pointing up, as well as every other direction. The Prime Ministrate pushed down with a finger and the model flipped slowly over and over.

‘The aim of the game is to become master of the castle,’ he began. ‘You begin by gathering wealth, exploring and taking what you can, either by force or by stealth. Every section has its own players, each made from a different material. You must win them over; you cannot kill them all. And you must overcome each type of player in a different way. Some respect force and can be beaten in combat; some respect money and can be bought. Others must be befriended or hypnotised or even married to win them over. Mark your position and those of your allies with the figurines. They fit in these holes so that you can move the castle and see what you are doing without knocking them off. To win, you must link your territory all the way around the castle, on every side, in any way you can.’

‘How does it float?’ Groach asked in wonder.

‘The chamber in the centre is made up of the dungeon and treasure rooms. Those sections are constructed of magnets,
with their negative poles facing outwards. The rest of the model is made of balsa wood – you’re familiar with it, I’m sure. Light as a feather. The four pieces of metal in the base are also magnets, especially powerful ones. An inventor of ours in Noran makes them. They have their negative poles facing upwards and so repel the magnets in the model, push them away, so that with all four pushing up at once, they hold it suspended like that.’

‘The game sounds a bit complicated …’ Groach started, but Namen waved his hand in a dismissive fashion.

‘Learning’s half the fun. Watch, you can move your pieces one notch on every go; certain notches give you extra moves. How well you fight, talk, hypnotise is decided each go with this spinner on the base …’

The explanations went on for some time, and Groach was still trying to grasp the basics of making his pieces move, when Rak Ek Namen suggested they try a game. He found it hard to keep track of all the things going on at first, but once he got used to the rules, he began to enjoy it. He could hardly believe he was in a luxury coach, playing a game of strategy with the Prime Ministrate of Noran himself. The past week seemed like a dream now: the escape from the two shape-changers in the sewers, the night at the Moffets’, being captured trying to rescue Hilspeth … he stopped for a moment as he thought of Hilspeth, and immediately felt guilty. He had forgotten all about her. He felt a dull pain in his chest. She was still in a gaol cell somewhere. Maybe she had already had her trial and was being taken off to a prison or a workhouse somewhere.

‘Prime Ministrate?’ he said, clearing his throat.

‘Yes?’ the Noranian leader was intent on the castle.

‘Sir, I have a friend, someone I met while I was … away. She was attacked by a soldier, ehm … and arrested when she tried to fight back. I think she is still in gaol and … well, I’m worried about her …’

‘What’s her name?’ Namen asked, his attention still on the model. He hesitated for a moment, and then moved one of his pieces into the kitchens.

‘Hilspeth. Hilspeth Naratemus.’

‘Attacked by one of my soldiers, you say? Was it
provoked
? Did she attack him first?’

‘It was a “her”, actually. No, the soldier got abusive.
Hilspeth
just argued back and the soldier hit her across the head.’

‘Can’t have that. Your move, by the way. Breach of
discipline
. I’ll mention it to Mungret. We’ll have her released at once.’

‘That would be fantastic, thank you, sir. If there’s any way I can repay you …’

‘I’m not doing it as a favour, Shessil. Soldiers must learn not to act without orders. I am a hard but fair man. When my troops behave badly, when they are too violent or take power into their own hands, the people blame me. And so they should, for I command those soldiers. But I can’t be everywhere, and sometimes the troops get out of line and cause harm where they should not. That has to stop. The
soldier
will be punished and your friend released.’

Groach sat back and congratulated himself. Here he was, in conversation with the Prime Ministrate over a game of Pengence, and he had just got Hilspeth out of gaol. He
wondered
if she would be impressed and found himself hoping she would. This was how you got things done. This was the
way to go through life, not arguing with Hovem and the others about fertiliser or the water sprinklers. They would all listen to him, now. He had the ear of the Prime Ministrate; he was sure to be put in charge of the project. He would be famous for cracking the problem of the esh-bound bubule; perhaps they might re-name it after him. The Groach Bubule. The Esh-Bound Shessil. The Shessil Groach Bubule. He settled back into the velvet cushions and planned his next move on the castle. The Prime Ministrate was beating him, even though the Noranian leader was trying hard to give him a head start. Still, Groach thought to himself, bet he can’t make a bubule blossom.