The Harvest Tide Project Read online

  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?’

  ‘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 mo
ment 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 ‘THEY CHANGE INTO MONSTERS’

  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 wago
n, 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.