The Harvest Tide Project (5 page)

‘The wife loves flowers, but she’s scared of worms, see,’ Moffet explained. ‘I tell her they’re harmless and all that, but it does no good. Still, she keeps the place lookin’ nice, so I can’t complain really.’

He unlatched the front door, and they were hit by the rich smell of tomato soup. Groach realised he not eaten all day. His mouth watered at the delicious aroma. A raucous shout greeted them:

‘Moffet! What kind of cold sodden creature have you brought home this evening?’ A squat, well-built woman stood on the far side of the warm kitchen. She looked Groach up and down and turned a questioning eye on her husband.

‘He was in the river, wife, and he needs a place to stay for the night.’

‘Well, put some hot tea in the man before he falls over. The soup will be a while yet.’ With that she turned back to the selection of pots on the stove. The smells made Groach’s stomach rumble.

‘Do you smoke a pipe, Shessil?’ Moffet asked, lifting a hot kettle from the big iron stove.

‘No, I can’t say that I do. Tobacco was forbidden where I come from. I’ve never tried it.’

‘There’s nothing to warm a man up like a good pipe. Have a seat there,’ Moffet pronounced, waving to a battered
armchair
and eagerly stoking the two ends of his forked bone pipe. He lit it with a match and drew in a drag with relish.

‘Aye, there’s nothin’ to make a man lazy like a good pipe
either, ya trog,’ Mrs Moffet scoffed. ‘You were making tea.’

‘I’m getting to it, wife. A kettle should sit for a bit before making a brew,’ her husband retorted.

‘You mean a man must sit for a bit before making a brew,’ she snapped back. ‘Get this man some dry clothes and some hot water and soap to wash with … and a towel. And take your boots off my clean floor.’

Moffet carried a tin bathtub into a cluttered back room and filled it with water from a large pot on the stove. Then he went to dig out some fresh clothes while Groach had a soak. As he sat there, Groach pulled his long hair under his nose and smelled sewer on it. Two washes later, he could still smell it. The stink was in his beard too. Moffet had left him a straight razor and a mirror, and there was a scissors on the shelf above him. After a long, thoughtful gaze into the mirror, he started cutting. He managed to make a half decent job of his hair by simply hacking it all off and cropping it close to his skull. Somehow it even made his thinning
hairline
and growing bald patch a little less noticeable. His hair was darker near the roots, and he quite liked the look of it. He had not shaved in years, so that was a little bit trickier and he nicked the skin with the razor a few times before he had finished, but in the end, a younger, very different and definitely less smelly Shessil Groach looked back out of the mirror at him. He cleared up the mass of sandy-coloured hair, intent on throwing it away, but Moffet declared with delight that it would make wonderful flies for bait. And lots of them too, by the looks of things.

After Groach had dressed in a shirt and trousers that were too long but comfortable nonetheless, he thanked his hosts and flopped into his seat again. Neither of them mentioned
the fact that he looked utterly unlike the man who had walked into their house, thinking this might be rude where he came from. Mrs Moffet was brewing a fresh pot of tea. She was a good deal shorter than her husband, with a long, wrinkled face topped by red cheeks and a flat nose. She wore her brown hair back in a massive bun. The little woman was wearing an old but carefully cleaned green and blue striped dress.

‘Tea’ll be a few minutes,’ she said to her visitor. ‘The lump here did not introduce you. What’s your name and where are you from?’

‘Shessil Groach. I’m from the Harvest Tide Project.’

‘Are you really? Can’t say I’m familiar with it. Is that near Ashglaft?’

‘I’m not sure where it’s near, to be honest. It’s in a city, Noran, I think. We’re staying at a big house at the moment, in another town, closer to here.’ Groach shifted
uncomfortably
in his seat. He had an extensive knowledge of
geography
, but had little experience of it personally. In the project, the city had always been ‘The City’. It was all they had needed to call it, as they were not allowed out to visit it anyway. He knew even less about the town the project staff were now staying in. ‘I don’t think it’s Ashglaft, but then I’m not sure.’

‘Odd, that,’ she sniffed. ‘Not knowing where you come from. Still, maybe that’s normal in strange parts. Tea’s ready. How do you take it?’

‘Do you have any honey?’ Groach asked timidly. He had a bit of a sweet tooth.

‘Hah! Yes! I like a drop in my tea myself.’ She reached up and pulled down a jar. Unplugging it, she put a couple of
spoonfuls in Groach’s mug with some milk and handed it to him. He nodded gratefully.

She then gave her husband his without adding anything and grasped her own cup. She started pouring the honey into the tea.

‘He says I take too much of the stuff, that I should drink it black like him, that it’s bad for my teeth,’ she grunted,
gesturing
with her head in her husband’s direction. ‘And here’s me with all my teeth still in my head and him quickly losin’ the last of his.’

She finished pouring the honey and stirred the thick tea, slowly adding milk that took some time to sink in. Groach hugged his own mug, savouring its warmth. He had been colder than he realised and the comfort of the house was made all the more welcoming by his memories of the deep water. The episode in the sewers was already fading to the back of his mind.

‘So, Shessil, tell us about yourself,’ Moffet urged. ‘It’s not every day we get such a mysterious type floating down the river to us. Have you travelled far?’

He offered the pipe and Shessil, thinking it might be rude to refuse, took it.

‘Not all that far, I suppose,’ he mused. ‘But a long way for a person like me. I have lived in the same place since I was a boy and have not left it, except for a few trips to the coast, which were made in a curtained wagon so we could not see out during the journey. So, even though I may not be all that far from home, this is something of a strange land to me.’

He paused to take a pull on the pipe as he had seen Moffet do, only to feel the back of his throat burning down to his lungs. He gagged and started coughing uncontrollably. Mrs
Moffet threw her hands up in disgust and the fisherman seized the pipe from his hands and slapped him hard on the back, which made him cough harder.

‘It would be easier for the man to breathe if you would stop
hitting
him, Moffet,’ the woman said. ‘Drink some tea, Shessil. That will help a bit. My husband sometimes forgets that not everyone’s lungs are immune to poisonous fumes.’

Shessil’s coughing died down enough to allow him to drink a bit and wash the acrid taste from his throat, but his eyes continued to water. He swilled some tea around his mouth and sank deeper into his chair. Moffet sat back down in his own chair and dragged smoke from the pipe once more.

The meal started with the tomato soup Groach had smelled on first entering the house. It was as good as the aroma had promised, but was outdone by the main course of fresh trout. He could not remember a meal that had tasted so good, but then he had never had a day as exhausting as this one. His full stomach made him groggy and he sat back in his armchair with a sigh. Mrs Moffet, who was one of those cooks who ate very little and insisted everyone else had mountainous second helpings, nodded in satisfaction at a job well done. Moffet himself re-lit his pipe (Mrs Moffet would not have it at the table) and settled down opposite Shessil, in a posture that said he would be staying there for the evening.

Mrs Moffet washed up, rejecting Groach’s offers of help, and then perched on a tall stool with another syrupy cup of tea. At Moffet’s urging, Groach told the story of how he had ended up in the river, though he was wary that the couple might accuse him of lying about the boy who had become a
beast. But as they listened with a keen interest to his
description
of the events in the sewer, they just nodded at each other and muttered that this kind of thing was known to happen in foreign parts. Moffet then told his wife how his day had been, during which time Shessil, already drowsy, dozed off.

Moffet tapped the remains of his double-barrelled pipe out on the hearth and stood up. With little effort, he lifted Groach out of the seat and carried him into the back room, where his wife was preparing a bed. He laid the sleeping man on the sheet and covered him with some blankets. Then the pair retreated from the room and closed the door.

Taya was the same grey-green as the bush she was hiding in. Her skin was even mottled to match the shadows of the leaves around her. She crouched, watching the stone
cottage
, and thought about how much trouble she and her brother were in. Uncle Emos was after them, their folks would probably hit the roof when they found out, and now there were
more
strangers involved. She was going to give Lorkrin a good bashing when all this was over. And where was he? He should have been here by now. They had
followed
the current of the stream in the sewer and found the opening to the river. But not knowing which side the man was going to get out on, they had split up and each taken a bank to search. She had found their quarry’s trail leading from the river, and followed it to this house. They were to meet on this side, and Lorkrin was to track her if he did not see her. She had expected him before sunset and he was still nowhere in sight. There was a soft whistle nearby, and she
gave the bush a gentle shake.

Her brother crept in beside her and studied the stone cottage.

‘What kept you?’ she whispered.

‘There’s some soldiers camped down the road. I was having a look around.’

‘We’re not interested in soldiers, Lorkrin.’

‘Aw, I could have got a great chase off them, Taya. Besides, I think they’re searching for somebody. It could be our sewer rat. We need to get that quill off him before they catch him.’

Taya sighed and turned her gaze back towards the house.

‘I think they’ve settled down for the night. He won’t be coming out of there before dawn,’ she murmured. ‘This is all going so wrong. Uncle Emos is going to find out what we did and Ma and Pa will keep us in peeling potatoes and
turnips
for the whole summer.’

‘If we’re lucky,’ Lorkrin snorted. ‘All over a pen.’

‘Do you think this is why transmorphing’s banned?’ Taya wondered aloud.

‘Probably. If we can collapse a sewer by accident, think about what somebody like Uncle Emos could do on purpose.’

That thought silenced them both. After a while, they pulled blankets from their bags and covered themselves up; the night was becoming colder. They would have to take turns to stay awake if they were to catch the man when he came out of the house, but neither of them wanted to offer to take first watch. In the end, they both fell asleep.

3 T
HE
S
OLDIERS AND THE
S
CENT
-S
ELLER

It was dark in the laboratory, and Groundsmaster Hovem was glad that he had made this discovery after all the others had finished for the night. The glass tank before him was the width of a man’s outstretched arms on all four sides, but reached up to the ceiling, hidden in the shadows high above him. It was one of thirty in the building. The tanks were the centre of the project; its success would be decided in one of these glass columns. No, Hovem thought, its success had been decided. What he saw before him in the glass vessel was the end of the project. And it would be the end of more than that. He had known it would happen eventually. The people here may have been ignorant of the ways of the world, but where the ways of plants were concerned, they were geniuses.

‘This is the tank that Shessil was working on?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Yes, Mr Hovem,’ the young lab assistant replied. ‘Isn’t it fantastic?’

‘Yes, lad it is. It is fantastic.’ Hovem gazed into the misty contents of the vessel.

With Shessil gone, this tank contained the only key to the completion of the project. He had delayed making a
decision
about this for some time. A message should have been sent to Rak Ek Namen immediately. He drew in a deep breath and grimaced.

‘Lad?’

‘Yes, Mr Hovem?’

‘I think you’d best fetch me an axe.’

When the axe had been brought, Hovem muttered a brief, but sincere prayer to Everness, the god of greenery, and hefted the heavy handle over his shoulder. Waving the young man away, he swung the axe back and slammed it into the side of the tank. The glass exploded outwards and sluiced down in razor-sharp sheets and splinters. Hovem dived for cover, almost making it clear. A long triangular shard plunged into his back and pinned him to the floor. By the time the distraught lab assistant had gathered his wits enough to rush forward and help, the Groundsmaster was dead. Lanterns were being lit all over the building and the guards were on the scene, standing over the debris, unsure of what to do. They stayed there and kept everyone else back. They had no thoughts on what had happened; they would simply stop anything else unusual happening until somebody in authority arrived.

The land known as Sestina, one of the union of countries ruled by the city-state of Noran, was the home of the mollusc called the ornacrid. This large creature, a close relation to the snail, could weigh as much as a small pony. It had a shell not unlike an armadillo’s armour, but thicker and invulnerable,
with joints to allow its huge, soft body to move about. The head that protruded from the front of its shell was frog-like but with eight light-sensitive stalks instead of eyes.
Ornacrids
were harmless and docile; they fed on grass and leaves, and their slow movement meant they were feared by no one.

It was unfortunate, then, that an empty ornacrid carapace was the perfect shape for the bulky form of a Noranian
soldier
. These shells were the favoured armour of the
professional
warrior, which meant that the ornacrid was farmed in great quantities in order to remove them from their shells – a process that was fatal to the mollusc.

The creature that had given its life to provide the foot
soldier
named Grulk with her body armour had been a
particularly
handsome specimen. The shell was a deep green with grey streaks that glistened in the morning sun. Grulk,
however
, did not gleam in the morning sun. Grulk was not a morning person. And she was enjoying being a soldier less and less. There were the constant early mornings for a start. The fact that they had to walk wherever they went. And the fact that they went
everywhere
– whenever they were told to. And it looked as if she would never be promoted, so she would never be able to tell anybody else when and where to walk. The fighting was getting her down as well. It was pretty certain that one day she was going to go into battle and not come out again. Old Noranian soldiers did not retire or fade away; they got killed. Thoughts like these kept
Left-Speartrooper
Grulk in a bad mood for most of the time that she spent awake. Lately, even her comrades tried to avoid her; they felt she took the job too personally.

Today was another house-to-house search. Grulk followed
Forward-Batterer Wulms with their battlegroup away from the campsite and on into Crickenob. One more dump full of farmers and fishermen. She was so sick of these places. Every house had clean, white-limed walls and turf roofs; the roads were cobbled and children ran around, shouting and screaming like little animals and playing games as if that was all that mattered in the world. Not one of them would have lasted a day in an army training camp.

One child, not four years old, trotted towards them. She was chasing a ponyip. The colourful bird tweeted and
scampered
from side to side. Unable to fly with its feathers clipped, it played the little girl’s game, leading her a merry chase down the street. It had a red ribbon tied round its neck, and was obviously a favourite pet. The girl giggled and snorted at the little drop of snot that hung from her nose as a result of all the excitement. She stopped giggling when a big hand swooped down and seized the ponyip by the neck. Grulk held the bird up for closer inspection, and then deposited it in her leather satchel. Lunch.

The girl stood frozen at the unfairness of this and put a
fingertip
in her mouth as she decided whether or not she should ask for her pet back. The huge creature with the hard, shiny clothes and the long knives on her belt stared down at her as if she might well be the next into the bag. The little girl turned and scurried back up the road, wailing. Grulk rolled her eyes back and shrugged at the soldiers beside her who were
shaking
their heads in disdain. There were some depths to which even a Noranian soldier did not sink. Grulk did not care. They would not object to a wing or drumstick come lunchtime.

A stray mongrel watched the soldier confiscate the ponyip, grimacing in an expression of disgust that had no place on a dog’s face. It was a slightly outlandish-looking dog, with a spiky mane, protruding teeth, and big claws, because Lorkrin liked turning himself into weird things. He had awoken before dawn and, after a short row with Taya over who should have taken first watch, decided to do some scouting around. Strange children were the kind of thing people noticed in a village, but stray dogs could wander relatively unnoticed. He pitied the little girl’s folks, helpless to stop their daughter from being bullied by soldiers. The young Myunan knew his ma and pa would never have stood for that kind of thing, but humans were such a brittle lot.

Lorkrin was sure that Taya blamed him for this mess they were in. She always did that. She’d go along with his ideas until they got into trouble, and then she would say it was his fault. Well, it was she who had grabbed the page from him; it was she who tore it. And he’d tell, if it was the only way to save his own neck. Not that it would work. They were in so deep now. It didn’t matter who had started it.

People were peering out windows at the soldiers now, some coming to their doors, or even out onto the street. They were all careful to stay out of the path of the
battlegroup
, but they got in Lorkrin’s way as he tried to follow the soldiers. He pushed impatiently through the forest of legs, struggling to see what was going on.

The Forward-Batterer directed his troops to start the search with the houses at the edge of the village and work their way in. Doors that were not open by the time the
soldiers
reached them were kicked in.

They obviously had a description of the man they were
looking for. Anyone fitting that description was dragged out into the village square and made to kneel under armed guard. The villagers did not put up a great struggle. There were shouts and plaintive crying, even women trying to hold onto their men as they were dragged out into the street. But no weapons were raised against the soldiers; no one struck out or stood up to them. Lorkrin looked on with morbid
fascination
. Myunans were nomads, and had little contact with the army. But for the villagers of Crickenob, raids were like storms or floods, freak events that they bore with dignity if they could, each villager keeping up a dignified front and hoping they would not fall victim. Raids were just another part of life. There was nothing the villagers could do about them. So the people assembled in the square to find out what would happen next. Frightened and worried, they were nonetheless fascinated to know what had taken place beyond their small world to bring the soldiers here.

Shessil Groach and his hosts were enjoying a breakfast of milk, plums and butter on a tomato-flavoured bread, when they heard the shouting and screaming. Moffet, who had just opened the shutters to let in the morning sun, grunted to himself and stuck his pipe in his mouth.

‘Soldiers’re coming,’ he rasped to his wife. She tutted and started taking the more fragile pieces of crockery from the shelves and putting them in cupboards. She moved the
furniture
well clear of the door and unlatched it, leaving it closed over. She would not have her door knocked off its hinges, but she was not going to open the door of her home in welcome to any Noranians either. There were principles
to be observed after all.

She put a pot of tea on the table and the couple sat back down with their guest to finish their breakfast. Groach was pouring the tea when the door was kicked in. It bounced against the wall before swinging back on its hinges, nearly hitting the burly soldier who had kicked it. The trooper stopped it with his hand and stepped into the kitchen,
followed
by two others. Groach, his eyes wide at this violent intrusion, froze, the teapot poised in mid-air. Moffet blew a smoke ring.

‘What is it this time?’ he asked. ‘Kartharic spies, I suppose, or bush demons maybe. I liked the last one. What was it?’