The Harvest Tide Project (6 page)

‘Witches,’ his wife supplied.

‘Ah yes, witches. I remember you cornered quite a few of them that time. Damned clever test you had. If they didn’t burn when you put them on a bonfire, they were witches. Damned clever. ’Course, they all burned as I remember.’

‘There is a fugitive loose in the area,’ the soldier growled. ‘There’s a reward for his capture. You two I have seen before. Who is he?’

His finger pointed like a weapon at Groach, who was still holding the teapot up in the air. The teapot started
trembling
. Could he be the fugitive they were searching for? Surely not. Why would they send so many soldiers just to find him? Suddenly he was afraid. He tried to think of
something
to say, but all he could do was squeak quietly. Moffet’s eyes flicked towards Groach momentarily, but the rest of him stayed slouched in the chair.

‘He’s my cousin from Rimstock, come to bring news of my aunt,’ he said around the stem of his pipe. ‘Pay no mind to him. He’s a bit simple, if you know what I mean.’

The soldier smirked, and took one more look at the man holding up the teapot. The little wretch did not match the description anyway, but it was good to check out new faces. He waved to the other two men and they left the house. Moffet followed them out to watch them leave his property. Groach peeked round the door at them, clutching the teapot like a good-luck charm. The soldiers were gathered in a group at the gate, talking. They were waiting for the rest of their group to finish the houses along the road.

The clink and jingle of bottles drew everyone’s attention towards the corner of the cobbled road, the space beyond hidden by a copse of trees. The clinking grew steadily louder until a figure appeared, pushing a cart the size of a wheelbarrow. It had shelves running up both sides to a point at the top; the shelves had holes in neat rows, and in each hole there was a vial or bottle. The tall barrow hid most of the figure behind it, but a head topped with a thick mop of curly red hair could be clearly seen over its peak.

The troops went quiet. There was a space between the shelves down the middle of the cart for the person pushing to be able to see ahead of them, and one or two of the
soldiers
hunched to try to see through this gap and get a glimpse at the figure.

The cart rolled right up to them and halted. The soldiers scattered around it and assumed aggressive stances,
weapons
drawn, battle cries rising in their throats. But it was a small, albeit slightly plump, young woman who unhitched the barrow from the belt around her waist and arched her back with a great stretch. She ignored the heavily armed ogres around her, and flicked her thick red hair over her shoulders. Pale blue eyes stared out of a round, brown,
freckly face at the soldier who stood in her way. She wore an ankle-length, green cotton dress, belted at the waist, a dark green cloak and soft leather boots. She also had a long suede waistcoat on, lined with dozens of little pockets. The girl cocked her head to one side and addressed the soldier:

‘Good morning. Can I help you at all?’

‘What’s your name?’ the soldier demanded (and Groach realised for the first time that the soldier, too, was a woman).

‘You can call me Hilspeth. Would you mind moving aside?’

‘I can
call
you anything I
like
,’ the armour-clad woman retorted. ‘We’re here on an official manhunt. State your full name and your business here in Crickenob.’

‘Hilspeth Naratemus; and my business is the same here as anywhere else,’ she gestured towards her cart. ‘Would you care for a sample? I have several preparations that can help ease an unpleasant temperament.’

‘Don’t give me any of your snotty talk …’

‘Yes, I imagine you have more than enough snot of your own. I have a tonic here that can cure that, too.’

‘You are getting right up my nose, little girl,’ the soldier hissed.

‘Not yet, I’m not.’ The girl’s voice carried a note of warning that rattled the warrior even further.

‘What are all these bottles? Are you a medicine woman?’ the soldier asked, voice tinged with superstition.

‘No, a scentonomist. I mix aromas for people’s pleasure and wellbeing.’

‘You sell smells?’

‘Yes, that’s a crude, but accurate, way of putting it. I could prepare one for you if you like.’

‘Why would I want to pay for a smell?’

‘To hide the ones you seem to have collected for free.’

There was a moment of grim silence as this sunk in. Then a fist the size and weight of a turnip hit Hilspeth across the side of the head. She crumpled to the ground. The soldier raised her spear over her head, intent on impaling the girl, but she did not notice the small man who had run from the house behind her. Without warning, an arm swung over her shoulder, smashing a teapot against the side of her face. Hot tea sprayed in her eyes and she shrieked. Her elbow caught Groach under the chin, lifting him off his feet and sending him sprawling across the road. Two soldiers rushed him and, several kicks later, he was unconscious.

Taya could not see what was going on. She was squatting inside a henhouse, watching the cottage where the man named Shessil was staying, but there were a couple of
soldiers
right outside, so she couldn’t stick her head up without being spotted. There had just been some kind of struggle and she was desperate to find out what had happened. She took out her tools, including a small mirror, and slunched the muscles that acted as a skull in Myunans, letting them relax so the flesh of her head became soft and pliable. She hurriedly sculpted some crude feathers over her scalp and worked a rough chicken’s head up out of her forehead, which she then crefted, tensing it so that it kept its shape. With a moment of concentration, she changed the colours of the disguise to match the plumage of the hens around her.

The soldiers standing next to the henhouse paid no
attention
when a scruffy hen appeared at the raised door. Taya
peered out and her heart sank as she saw two armoured
figures
lifting Shessil’s inert form into the back of a gaol wagon. Some red-headed girl, who was barely conscious herself, was hauled to her feet and pushed in after him. The troops then rounded up the other men they had taken captive and they, too, were locked in the confinement of the wood and iron cage. Soon they were getting ready to leave.

Lorkrin appeared around the wall of the henhouse, trying to look nonchalant in that stupid mad dog disguise. Ducking behind the fence, he slunched back into his normal shape, then crept in beside her. He regarded her chicken-shaped head with a straight face.

‘I preferred your hair the way it was,’ he breathed. ‘What’s going on out there? I couldn’t get a good look.’

‘That Shessil fellow has just been chucked into a gaol wagon. They’re taking him away.’

‘Aw, bowels,’ whispered Lorkrin.

‘Shh!’ Taya was trying to listen to the talk of the soldiers. A few moments later, she put her hands to her face and slumped back against a shelf of nests. ‘They’re taking them to Hortenz. Wonder why he cut off his beard and hair like that …’

Shape-shifters were not easily fooled by a change in appearance.

‘Well isn’t that just the icing on the cake,’ her brother hissed. ‘Arrested by soldiers … we’ll never get that bloody quill back now.’ He paused. ‘Here, you don’t think they arrested him for wrecking the sewer, do you?’

‘You mean, you think this is our fault too?’ Taya’s eyes widened beneath their camouflage of fake feathers.

‘No. No chance.’

‘We’ll have to go after them.’

‘Have you popped your cork? What do we do then? Let’s go back to Uncle Emos and tell him what happened. He’ll be annoyed all right … well, he’ll probably be out of his mind … but he’s not about to actually
kill
us. Those are Noranian
soldiers
. Getting a chase off them is one thing, walking right up to one of their wagons under their very noses and messing with one of their prisoners is another thing altogether.’

‘Are you saying you’re scared?’

‘No.’

‘Sounds like you’re scared to me.’

‘I’m not scared. But I’m not stupid either.’

Taya regarded the departing troops thoughtfully. She wondered when she and her brother would ever be able to go home. They certainly couldn’t go back without returning their uncle’s quill, but their tribe would be moving into the forest in the autumn, and all the girls would change their body colours for the new season. She couldn’t bear to miss that. Turning to her brother, she sat down and let her head slunch out of its chicken shape.

‘Ma made me promise not to tell you this, but I think you need to know now.’

‘Know what?’ Lorkrin’s eyes narrowed.

‘You remember those two lads who were causing all that grief around the area last year, the ones who dumped the dead cow in Uncle Emos’s well?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, what you don’t know is that when he pulled that cow out of the well, he went and found them. And he shoved both of them into it.’

‘He threw them in the well?’ Lorkrin grinned.

‘No, he shoved them into the
cow
,’ Taya hissed. ‘He buried them up to their necks in its belly and used the
transmorphing
to seal that rotting meat up around them. They were stuck like that until the constable came and dug them out. And that cow had been dead for
days
. That’s what
happened
last time Uncle Emos got really angry with someone.’

Lorkrin’s face turned green. They locked eyes for a minute, weighing the risks as the chickens clucked quietly around them. The limitless array of possible punishments open to their uncle played through their minds.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Lorkrin muttered. ‘I need to pee.’

Mungret stood before the Prime Ministrate, in the plush wood-panelled study, waiting for his master’s reaction to the news. It was an expansive, square room, with a large
fireplace
. To the right side of the fire was the desk of the mayor of Hortenz, which was, for the time being, the Prime
Ministrate’s
desk. The fire was always lit; with the result that anyone standing in front of the desk was always a little too warm.

‘Can anything be saved from the remains of the tank?’ Namen enquired.

‘There are four botanists examining it now, Prime
Ministrate
, but they are not optimistic,’ his secretary replied. ‘They believe that any samples will have been ruined.’

‘But we can be sure that Hovem took the action that he did, because he had realised the true nature of the project, and believed the tank contained a successful conclusion. A well-meaning man, but misguided. We shall have to pick a new Groundsmaster. And make sure he fully understands
just how important this project is.’

‘Yes, Prime Ministrate.’

‘What about Shessil Groach’s research materials?’ the Noranian leader continued.

‘We cannot find any of his recent notes. It is suspected that he took them with him, Prime Ministrate.’ Mungret was ready with his answers. It was important to pay attention to details if one was to keep working for Rak Ek Namen. Namen paid close attention to details.

‘He does not know anyone,’ his leader observed aloud. ‘Apart from these little trips to the coast, he has not been out of the compound in Noran alone for fifteen years. There cannot be many places for him to hide. And he has lived hidden away from the outside world for so long that he will find it hard to fit in.

‘Put more troops on search duty. This man must be found. And raise the reward. He is out there. Someone must know where he is.’

4 ‘T
HEY
C
HANGE INTO
M
ONSTERS'

Something stabbed its way up Shessil Groach's nostrils and burned his sinuses until he woke up. A soft hand was patting his face, but it was out of rhythm with the throbbing in the side of his head and around his jaw, so he clasped the hand and pushed it away. As his vision cleared, it filled with the round, expectant face of a young woman.

‘What did you stick up my nose?' he mumbled.

‘Just gave you a whiff of some smelling salts, to bring you back to your senses,' she reassured him.

‘Wanna go back to sleep.'

‘All right, but let me just check you over while you're awake. You might have hurt your head.'

‘'kay.'

She splayed the fingers of both hands and placed them on his head. Then she prodded his scalp in various places.

‘Aaagh!'

‘Where did it hurt?' she asked, frowning.

‘Everywhere you poked. Leave me alone, madam. I'll be quite all right once you keep your fingers and chemicals to yourself!'

‘I was only trying to help,' she sniffed.

‘I have no doubt.' He clutched his throbbing head.

The woman moved away from him and sat back against the wooden wall separating them from the driver. Her face was a careful mask, hiding all emotion. From what little he knew of women, Groach knew this was a sure sign that she was ready to burst, either with rage or hurt feelings.
Embarrassed
and ashamed at his behaviour, he knelt up and leaned towards her;

‘Madam, I must apologise. My head was sore and I was disoriented. I did not mean what I said. I would be grateful for any help you could give me.'

She ignored him for a moment, to be sure he understood how hurt she had been. Then she reached into her leather waistcoat and withdrew a small vial.

‘For people with sore heads,' she said. ‘And thin skins.'

He blushed and took the vial.

‘Take two drops under the tongue, three times a day. No more,' she added. ‘It will ease the pain. Whether or not it will fix your head is a different matter.'

‘Thank you.' He nodded. As he looked around the cage that made up the back of the wagon, he could not help noticing that the other occupants had a number of features in common. They were all men about his age, with long beards. Each had thinning, sandy-coloured hair or was
completely
bald, and they were all frightened. A realisation dawned on Groach. He had looked the very same up until the previous night.

‘My name is Hilspeth,' said the woman. ‘And it is I who should be doing the thanking. You saved my life. That
soldier
would have killed me. I'm sure of it.'

‘Yes …' Groach was barely listening. He was thinking back to the gardens, back to his safe life, working as a botanist on the project – before two little monsters had destroyed the ground beneath his feet and thrown him out into the wider world. He was obviously being sought by the Noranians. They were arresting anyone who even resembled him. It was hard to believe his work on eshweed could be so important to them. Most people just did not take plants that seriously. He had every intention of returning to work; but now that he had seen the world outside the project, he was reluctant to go back immediately. Obviously his appearance had changed enough to fool the soldiers. But they still had him securely locked up. He decided to keep his secret for a while yet.

‘And your name is …?' Hilspeth prompted.

‘Eh?'

‘Your name? Most people have one. You're generally given one at birth.'

‘Oh …' he thought for a moment. ‘Eh … Panch, Panch Gessum.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Panch Gessum.' She held out her hand.

‘Delighted, Miss …' He had forgotten her name already.

‘Hilspeth, Hilspeth Naratemus,' she chirped.

‘Delighted, Hilspeth.' He took her hand and shook it, but his attention was still on the other prisoners. He wondered if they suspected. Probably not – why would they? They had no idea why they were here. They did not know they were here because of him. Perhaps he should give up and admit to the soldiers who he was, save these men the trouble and go back to the project. He did feel some guilt for their plight,
but he found it hard to care much about people, who for the most part were merely a distraction from his work. He peered between the reinforced wooden bars of the cage.

In a cloud of steam and smoke, with chugging engines and tramping boots, the convoy was making its way along the course of a dried-up river. Above them on both sides, grass hung from the edges of the banks, giving way to clay and gravel where the water had cut a swathe through the landscape. A fisherman's hut broke the skyline here and there along the ridges, bringing to mind the hospitality of the Moffets and the pleasure of the evening before. Above the front wall of the cage, the arm of a catchwagon could be seen, holding aloft a manhunter who used the position to act as lookout for the convoy. Groach gazed past the elevated soldier to the sky beyond. The sun was high and was
burning
away the clouds that clogged the blue expanse above. In the distance, the sharp peaks of a mountain range were just visible above the riverbank.

He remembered his friend Haller's comment, a few weeks before his death, that they were captives in the project, the walls around the gardens like a prison. Groach had laughed at the idea. Prisoners did not get to spend their days in some of the finest gardens in the world, or work on such
important
research. They were just being kept safe. That was all. But Haller had been unhappy in his last days, frustrated with the project and its masters. Now, Groach could see why. There was a lot to be experienced in this outside world.

‘Where do you think we're going?' he asked Hilspeth.

‘I heard them say they were taking us to Hortenz,' she answered.

‘Is it far?'

‘A bit more than a day's travel, if that's where we're going.'

Groach thought about this for a minute. Then, speaking quietly, asked, ‘Is it a big town? Beside a river that runs through the hills?'

‘That sounds like Hortenz. A walled town. With a fortified barracks on the square.'

‘That's the one – do you know it well?'

‘Well enough; I do some business there. Is that where you're from?'

‘Let's just say it is a place I don't want to return to just yet.'

‘All right.' Hilspeth lowered her voice. ‘Is that why you're whispering?' She had a sharp, amused glint in her eye that held his gaze.

‘Yes. I would appreciate you not mentioning it to anyone.'

‘Done. It's the least I can do.' She patted his shoulder. ‘But I would watch out for that soldier you hit with the teapot. She has been walking behind the wagon for the last few minutes … and she hasn't taken her eyes off us. I don't think she's even blinked.'

As the convoy travelled along the dusty road, a sharp eye would have spotted a pair of young deer that appeared from time to time, keeping pace with the group by travelling cross-country, but none of the guards were on the lookout for deer. Later in the afternoon, they pulled into a village and stopped for a while to rest the infantry who were marching alongside. Left-Speartrooper Grulk came up closer and squinted between the bars of the gaol-wagon. She hissed at Groach: ‘This will be short trip for you, little man. It'll all be over for you as soon as it gets dark. Bad things happen in the dark. Accidents. People can fall over and get their heads chopped off. You'll die slow and messy, I promise you that.
Slow and messy. Might cook ya and eat ya if I'm hungry enough.'

‘Grulk! Stand down!' Forward-Batterer Wulms shouted. He put up with Grulk because she was stubborn and cruel, good qualities in a Noranian foot soldier, but she tended to take things personally and forget that you were not
supposed
to act without orders. Wulms never did anything
without
orders.

‘These prisoners are to be taken to the capital. You will not harm them without the proper authority. Is that
understood
, Left-Speartrooper?'

‘He's only here because he attacked me. Why not just deal with him now?' Grulk argued. ‘Do we have laws or not? It's only just that he be put to death. I know my rights.'

‘He shall be put to death only after a trial. That is the law, Left-Speartrooper Grulk. Now stand down. I will not say it again.'

Grulk aimed one last venomous stare at Groach. She had broken the rules enough times before to know she would be punished for killing a prisoner. And she knew it would be worth every moment of it.

Their destination was the stronghold of Hortenz. It lay on the far side of some treacherous hills and they would not reach it that night, so the Whipholder commanding the convoy decided to camp in a field in the lee of a small forest. The wagons were circled into a protective formation and the first watch posted outside as the cooks set the barbecues inside for the evening meal. The prisoners in each gaol wagon were given a bucket of water and a loaf of bread among them. Fights broke out in some cages over the paltry bit of food.

In their temporary prison, Hilspeth and Groach sat silently. Hilspeth had commandeered the bread when it had been handed in, and the rest of the prisoners, all men who knew when not to argue with a woman, waited for their
portion
in civilised silence. From one of the array of pockets in her jacket, she produced a sachet of powder.

‘This is a spice. It has a flavour that will take away your hunger. I will add it to the portion of anyone who wants it. This bread will not be enough and we all know it. I can put herbs in the water to help keep up our strength.'

The fighting in the next wagon nearly drowned out her voice. She looked in the eyes of each man. They all nodded in turn. She was known in their villages as a sage of sorts. Though most of her customers were women from wealthy families, her reputation was that of an honest, if slightly dubious, medicine woman. Her remedies were unlikely to harm them and might even do some good. The men kept this opinion to themselves. She had a large number of other potions that might not be good for their health.

Groach took his piece of bread and scoffed it down. It tasted hot and he knew he had eaten it too fast. He had a burning sensation in his mouth, but Hilspeth was as good as her word. He was no longer hungry. Now he needed some water to cool his mouth. He crouched by the bucket and scooped water into his mouth with his hand. As he did so, he caught sight of Hilspeth slipping something up her sleeve. She was peering out into the gloom that filled the view beyond the circle of vehicles. Groach followed her line of sight and saw only the sentries, standing like short, stout trees out on the perimeter. He was turning back when he heard a sound that did not fit with the scrapping of the
nearby prisoners or the slurping and tearing of the soldiers tucking into their food.

It was a soft sound, one that did not want to be heard. At first, he could not place where it was coming from. He strained to track it in the surrounding racket. Then he lifted his head to search the darkness above the heavy wooden grid that formed the roof of the cage. Fingernails on wood. Someone was climbing up the side of the driver's cab onto its roof, still out of sight of the back of the vehicle. Someone who did not wish to be seen.

He looked down to see Hilspeth's upturned face
following
the same scratching, clutching hint of movement. They came to the realisation at the same moment. The soldier woman, the one who had sworn he would not survive the night. She was coming to make good her threat.

The silhouette of a head popped into view.

‘Hey …' it began.

Some of the other prisoners in the wagon stood up. But faster than any of them, Hilspeth sprang to her feet, launched herself off the studded front wall of the cage and up towards the shadowy face. With a flick of her wrist, she caught the figure full in the face with a small bag of powder which burst on contact.

The figure on the roof began sneezing. By the tone of the sneezes, Groach knew this was no soldier. It was a child, probably a young girl. Something was wrong here. Hilspeth, too had realised her mistake. She had her hand to her mouth as she tried to catch sight of her victim. Up there somewhere, a child was having a merciless sneezing attack.

‘Oh my gosh, I'm sorry,' Hilspeth whimpered in genuine concern. ‘I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else.'

The camp was starting to turn its attention to the noise. Behind them, another child appeared at the door. He was probing at the padlock with his finger, which looked vaguely key-shaped. Groach knew this boy.

‘Don't let him near me!' he shouted. ‘That must be his sister up there. Keep them away – they're insane … and they change into monsters!'

‘Shut up, you idiot!' Lorkrin hissed, struggling with the bulky lock. ‘We're rescuing you!'