by Oisin McGann
Sprinting across the walkway, they scrambled up the gabled roof and slid down to the ledge on the other side. From there, they dropped onto the rooftop of a neighbouring factory. Dodging among the tall chimneys, they ran to the far end and found themselves confronted by a sheer drop to the street.
‘We can make this,’ Taya cried between breaths.
‘How?’ Hilspeth asked in despair. There was no way down that she could see.
‘We slunch and drop, then you land on us. We’ll soften your landing.’
‘Are you mad? You’ll be killed!’
‘We’re Myunans,’ Lorkrin reminded her. ‘Trust us.’
He and Taya jumped together and landed with a thump in a shapeless pile. Hilspeth moaned, and glanced behind her to see soldiers emerge from a skylight in the roof behind her. Gritting her teeth, she lunged off the ledge, falling kicking and screaming to the street below. She landed on her back on the soft cushion provided by the bodies of the Myunans and had the air knocked from her lungs. Lorkrin and Taya slipped from under her and struggled back to their normal forms.
‘You could do with losing some weight,’ Lorkrin wheezed.
They helped the scentonomist to her feet; she was gasping for breath. Clutching her chest, she pointed at an alley across from them. People were starting to gather to see what this unusual threesome was up to. Over their heads came the shouting of soldiers barging their way through. Taya led the others down the alley and through to the street beyond. They came face to face with Right-Speartrooper Flivel. Reaching into her waistcoat, Hilspeth grabbed the first bottle that came to hand and sprayed the contents in the soldier’s face. He dropped his spear and staggered to one side, then fell over. In puzzlement, she looked at the label. It was essence of popelflower, the smell of which brought back childhood memories, but in large quantities caused complete loss of balance.
Flivel made to get to his feet again, but once up, he swayed uncertainly and toppled right over again. Hilspeth pushed him over once more as he got his feet under him, and then she ran. Lorkrin gave him an extra shove for good measure as he passed him. They did not get very far. As they watched, people moved off the street to clear the way for three soldiers who were charging towards them.
‘Aw, bowels.’
Lorkrin turned around again and ran headlong into a Parsinor-shaped wall.
‘You didn’t make it to Brodfan, then,’ Draegar growled.
He stepped past the Myunans and into the path of the soldiers, stamping Flivel into the ground. The first man threw himself at the Parsinor, who brought his elbow up and slammed it into the man’s throat, knocking him flat on his back. The second made an overhead swing with a halberd and Draegar swivelled to one side, letting the weapon bury itself in the ground, before holding it down with one foot and snapping the back of his left fist into the man’s face, sending him skidding back on his bottom. The third faltered, seeing his comrades beaten so easily and, as he hesitated, Draegar hooked his foot under the halberd and kicked it at him, striking him in the forehead with its shaft. The man crumpled to the ground and lay still.
‘Wow,’ gasped Lorkrin.
‘You’ve just made things a lot more complicated,’ Draegar told Hilspeth and the two Myunans as he led them down a narrow alley and out of the sight of the people on the street. ‘Just when I don’t need to be noticed, you force me to start trouble with the Noranians. Now they will be looking for Parsinors, and I have work to do on the docks.’
18 QUIET PRAYERS IN RUTLEDGE
The barges were moored on either side of the bases of the three eb-towers, which floated in the River Gullin, and dwarfed every other construction in Noran. Built into these enormous eb-trees were light but formidable fortresses. At regular intervals up the trunks were armoured structures with battlements that housed the government. Turrets sat on every major branch of the trees. The lower levels were occupied by the military; catapults, crossbows and archers’ posts bristled from the battlements. From these positions, they could lob missiles far over the walls that surrounded the centre of the city, and the land could be watched to the horizon. Above and behind these defences, the politicians and generals languished in the luxurious rooms that squatted amongst the highest reaches of the trees. The structures were made of the same fireproof wood as the trees themselves, and each level was connected by twin spiral staircases as well as ladders and slide poles.
The floating base of each tree was the size of a small field, its rough nest of roots paved with cobbles to make way for vehicles and troops. Walls ran around the edge to provide extra security. Chains thicker than Draegar’s arms anchored the trees in place in the deeper water of the river, with heavy ropes mooring them to the docks, and even sturdier lengths of cable attached to the middle of the trees to hold them steady in high winds. Stout wooden bridges led out to the gates of the three fortresses and each was heavily guarded.
Security was tight around the barges. Soldiers stood watch as dock workers carried crates of crumble cones on board. Even so, it was relatively easy for someone to get aboard … if they could make themselves look like a crate. Lorkrin was carried on board and placed at the foot of a pile of boxes. To anyone looking at or touching him, he was for all intents and purposes, a wooden crate.
His eyes opened in two corners to check that it was safe for him to act, but before he could move, a guard appeared nearby and walked up to stand over him. It was the one who had chased them, Flivel. Lorkrin closed the eye nearest the man and held his breath, waiting for the moment when a knife or a sword descended on him. Flivel placed a booted foot up on Lorkrin’s back and leaned on it, looking around. Lorkrin’s fertile imagination went wild. Whatever this man was going to do to him, he didn’t want any witnesses. Lorkrin was about to lunge back and start screaming, when Flivel lifted his ornacrid armour and began scratching his backside. Failing to reach the offending itch, he changed feet, Lorkrin wincing as the heel came down on what would have been his head. After a furious bout of scratching, the guard put his foot down, straightened his armour, took a last furtive look around, and walked back the way he had come.
Lorkrin let out his breath with a relieved sigh. Unfolding his arms, he held up the test tube and tapped a few of the spores into the open crates beside him. Then he shuffled to the side of the hold, hauled himself up on the gunwale, and lowered his cube-shaped body into the water. He knew that on the quay on the other side of the river, Taya was doing the same thing. Against his better judgment, Draegar had been convinced that the two Myunans were his best hope of getting the spores into the shipment of crumble cones. Still in his square shape, Lorkrin swam awkwardly to the wall and slipped out, joining the stack of crates waiting to be loaded aboard the next barge along.
Groach sat at a table, scribbling some notes down and trying to look busy. In fact, he was listening intently to the conversations taking place around the room. He realised that these people knew far more about the aims of the Harvest Tide Project than he had, and had been recruited as much for their natures as they had for their knowledge. They knew people were going to die as a result of their work and they did not care. The fact that they were planning to cause a disaster simply made it more exciting for them.
‘I think the Karthars will be affected first,’ one voice commented. ‘They are more used to a higher climate, thinner air. They will be breathing deeper.’
‘I disagree,’ another put in. ‘For the very reason that they need less air.’
‘It doesn’t matter either way,’ a third muttered. ‘As long as they are standing in the way when the tide comes in.’
‘What’s this I hear about the Karthars landing on the coast?’ the first asked.
‘That’s the plan. The whole army is landing on Braskhia … they want to trounce the Braskhiams once and for all. That’s the whole point. The Prime Ministrate wants to bring them right onto the coast before we let the tide loose.’
‘But the Braskhiams don’t want to fight. How does he know the Karthars will take the bait?’<
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‘Because he planned it that way, you peasant. He’s been using Karthar esh-boats to attack Braskhiam ships, and Braskhiam vessels to attack Karthar ships. He wants to set them at each other’s throats. The Karthar navy invades Braskhia, and that’s when we launch. Then our army steps in and Noran ends up ruling both of them.’
Groach stood up, his chair scraping against the floor, and made his way over to a plans chest where the maps were kept. He took one out that showed the positions of all the esh-bound bubule plains on this side of the world. Examining it, he confirmed what he had already guessed. There were no bubules off the Karthar coast facing Noran. The only plains that could be safely reached by the Noranian fleet were off the coast of Braskhia. If Namen wanted to use the Harvest Tide against the Karthars, he would have to do it on Braskhia’s doorstep. Thousands lived on the farms and in the fishing villages along the coast. He was bringing his enemies to Braskhia so that he could destroy them and cripple the Braskhiams at the same time. Crush the Karthar fleet, and drag a weakened Braskhia into the Noranian Empire, where he could have all their science and technology for himself.
Groach thumped the top of the plans chest with his fist and strode over to the Groundsmaster.
‘I want to see the Prime Ministrate. Right now.’
‘Do you indeed? We’ll send a message to him. I’m sure he’ll come running.’
The Groundsmaster waved to the guard standing at the door.
‘Tell Mungret that Mr Groach has summoned the Prime Ministrate.’ He smiled at Groach. ‘And tell him that we will be ready for the tests on the prisoners in the morning.’ Gro
ach heard this, and one glance at the dissection tables made his blood run cold. Turning away, he stared at the floor for a time.
‘I’m going to my room,’ he said, eventually. ‘Good night.’
It was not long after dawn, and Mungret was sitting at his desk in the office adjoined to the Prime Ministrate’s quarters. Stacks of papers were neatly laid out all around him on the desk, on side tables and in folders on shelves. Paperwork was what Mungret did best, and he was happiest when left alone to comb through facts and figures that had little to do with dealing with individual people. He was not a people person, and resented having to cope with problems he could not solve with a pen. There was a knock on the door, and he tutted as he dipped his quill in a jar of water and dabbed it dry.
‘Enter,’ he said with a sigh.
The door opened, and the Whipholder in charge of security at the docks came in, followed by an embarrassed-looking soldier wearing only his armour and one boot. Mungret blinked once, then raised his gaze to the officer.
‘The Prime Ministrate wanted to be informed of any unusual goings on during the loading of the barges.’ The Whipholder returned the stare.
‘I don’t think half-naked soldiers was what he had in mind,’ Mungret snapped, picking up his quill again. ‘Hardly worth wasting his time for, is it?’
‘That’s just the thing,’ the officer replied firmly. ‘Right-Speartrooper Flivel here was on duty on the docks. He was fully clothed when he went on shift. He claims his clothes dissolved.’
‘Dissolved?’
‘Rotted and fell to pieces, while he was wearing them.’
Mungret put his pen down again and took another look at the soldier. Flivel was standing to attention by the side of his officer, but his hands kept wandering to cover his bare backside, his nakedness hidden at the front by his armour.
‘I presume this was not as the result of careless laundry,’ the clerk observed.
‘My troops take good care of their uniforms,’ the officer growled. He did not like the Prime Ministrate’s secretary, not many of the soldiers did.
‘Have you another explanation?’ Mungret enquired.
‘We’re not sure, but the only odd thing reported was that every barge had one more crate leaving the docks than they had on their inventories. Also, a Parsinor attacked some of our men earlier today. We have search parties out looking for him now.’
Mungret stood up and walked to the window, the way he had seen Rak Ek Namen do so many times when he was deep in thought. He watched the brightening sky for a few moments.
‘There was one of those desert dwellers with the Myunans who kidnapped the botanist,’ he muttered. ‘Alert your troops. I want every Parsinor in the city rounded up and held for questioning. Have the barges left?’
‘Yes, they left before first light.’
‘Get a message to the Whipholder on the boats. Have him check every vessel for anything out of the ordinary. There’s something going on here. I’ll inform the Prime Ministrate.’
Picking up some papers, he dismissed the soldiers and followed them out the door. He made his way down one of the staircases that wound around the trunk of the eb-tower, and climbed into a coach. Waving the driver on as he swung the door shut, he sat back in the cabin and closed his eyes. It was too early in the morning for pondering serious problems and, as usual, he had not got enough sleep that night.
It did not take long for the coach to cover the distance to the Harvest Tide Project, and once out of the vehicle, the secretary ran up the steps to the door. He was met by the Groundsmaster, who was wringing his hands with worry. There was a messenger there waiting with him. He saluted Mungret.
‘Just had a pigeon from the barges, sir. They report the cargo has been destroyed.’
Mungret felt a tightness in his chest.
‘What did you say?’
‘The cargo’s been destroyed, sir. They said something rotted it. Not just the crumble cones, either. The squad who found them said the guards and crew were naked. Not a shred of clothing between them. They reckon that whatever ate the cones ate their clothes too. Couldn’t get them to come out of hiding at first – they were too embarrassed. Cargo’s been reduced to slurry.’
Mungret struggled for breath, wheezing painfully.
‘Have any crumble cones got through?’ he gasped.
‘With that lot gone, it’ll just be the ones on the six barges that left early yesterday.’
Mungret shook his head and sat down. It was a fraction of what was needed, but it would have to be enough. They had no more time; the Karthars were approaching the coast as they spoke. Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were shaking. The thought of having to tell the Prime Ministrate clenched his lungs like two fists.
Emos soared towards the town of Rutledge-on-Coast, his fake feathers ruffling in the wind. From this height he could see the headland of Noran out to his left, just on the edge of the horizon. The air was clear and there was only a light breeze, perfect flying weather. He was in the shape of an eagle, wings outstretched and tail splayed, a form he would have been relishing if he had not been utterly exhausted.
He had stopped only twice for rest along the way, and then only long enough to hear what news there was of Braskhia and the esh. The last couple of days had turned up a series of ominous rumours. Esh-boats flying Braskhiam colours had been seen far out to esh, but no one recognised the boats or the crews. Karthar esh-boats had attacked Braskhiam vessels, but some survivors had sworn that the attacking ships had been manned not by Karthars, but by humans. Emos knew now what Namen was planning, even if he did not understand how it was possible. He knew enough to terrify him, enough to hope that Taya and Lorkrin were safe with Draegar, and to turn back for Rutledge-on-Coast as soon as he had heard what Cholsch had told him. He knew that Namen intended to crush both the Braskhiams and the Karthars together, and that he planned to do it using the Harvest Tide. Somehow, he had found a way to make the esh flood the land. But for his plan to succeed, the Braskhiams and the Karthars had to be at the same place at the same time when the Harvest Tide struck.
Skirting the Braskhiam shoreline, he kept the land to his right, following its ragged edge to where Rutledge lay. Out at esh, he saw two freighters at anchor and curiosity got the better of him. It was unusual to see two such large esh-ships together. He flew nearer, and saw that
they were dumping their cargo overboard. He was too far away to see what it was, but it looked like it might be crumble cones. He was reminded of the people he had seen gathering the cones under Noranian supervision, and he was suddenly sure that they were part of the plot.
Below him, he could see trawvettes pulling in their nets, and other esh-boats at full sail. It was a peaceful scene. Rutledge came into view and he circled above it, finally spotting the Lightfoot, Murris’s boat, making its way into the harbour, bringing in its catch for the day. He dived down towards it, swooping around the sails and landing heavily on the deck, breathing hard and unable to do anything else but stand wearily while the crew gathered around this curious sight of a huge eagle with a bag on its back.
Then he slunched and stood up straight, his wings shrinking to re-form his arms, and his legs lengthening to bring him back to his full height. His beak settled back into his tattooed face, restoring his normal visage, and he turned to look around him.
‘Now, that is what I call an entrance,’ Murris remarked from the door to the compressor room.
‘The Noranian Prime Ministrate means to kill you all,’ Emos said simply.
‘He’s going to have to get in line,’ Murris replied. ‘We’ve just come from out east. The entire Karthar fleet is bearing down on us. It seems we are at war.’
The Braskhiams had to get away from the coast. Emos argued frantically with Murris and others all evening as they made preparations for the town’s defence. But it was proving hard to convince the Braskhiams that the esh itself could be a threat to them; they knew it better than anyone after all. The armoury near the town square was opened, and men and women queued up as weapons were handed out. Murris was the leader of a group that included several engined catapults, and was organising setting them up on the docks. His wife, Berra, was sharpening short swords on an oilstone.