by Oisin McGann
‘Yeah,’ Lorkrin agreed. ‘That would make him proud. He might even not tell Ma and Pa about us stealing the quill at all.’
‘So we’d only get punished once …’
‘Yeah.’
‘So anyway, we’ll try again,’ Taya said slowly. ‘See if we can help him escape.’
‘…Yeah,’ her brother agreed, after some hesitation.
‘Right.’
The two Myunans sat opposite each other across the fire and wondered what they had just argued themselves into.
6 JUSTICE AND GRAMMAR
Emos Harprag sat slumped at a table in a storyhouse tavern in Hortenz, a half-finished plate of food pushed aside, his head buried in his arms. After spending the last two days and nights searching for his niece and nephew, he had lost their trail and was considering going back to the farm to see if they turned up there. Deep in exhausted slumber, he dreamed – old memories replaying in his troubled mind:
He took in the scene around him as his friend Murris and two others prepared the diving gear. The esh-boat’s deck rose and fell gently beneath his feet with the motion of the sea of gas. The boat was a trawvette, a Braskhiam fishing boat made up of the usual three wooden hulls full of compressed hydrogen, each with two masts and six sails, which were now lowered to allow the craft to sit still at anchor. Emos had joined the crew of the Lightfoot that day at the request of Peddar Murris, the boat’s chief engineer, to help with a salvage operation. The captain of the fishing vessel sometimes used quiet periods during the fishing season to bring up valuables from boats lying wrecked beneath the surface of the gas. Murris had convinced the captain that it could be useful to have a man along on dives who could take all sorts of shapes, and fit through impossibly small gaps. For the Myunan it was a bit of extra money to put into the farm.
Emos could see from the looks he was getting that not all of the crew was comfortable having him around. Eshers were a superstitious lot, and anything out of the ordinary was grounds for suspicion … and that included shape-shifters. But there were many places where Emos was not welcome. He had become accustomed to staying out of the way of people and he did so now, standing by the rail, his faded grey eyes staring down at the balloon buoy that marked the place where they would dive, the place where a Karthar frigatch carrying a small, but valuable cargo of gold had hit rocks after being caught in a ferocious storm.
Murris stood up straight and bowed when he saw the eshtran step onto the deck. No dive could take place without the blessing of the Braskhiam boat’s holy man. As the eshtran chanted the Diving Prayer, the engineer assisted Emos in putting on his equipment. There was the harness girdle attaching him to the safety rope, flotation bags that could be inflated with hydrogen from canisters in an emergency, and the breathing apparatus made up of a mask and goggles that strapped to his head, from which a hose led to an air pump on the deck of the boat. There was also a glowjar full of fluorescent green fungus to help light his way; lanterns did not burn underesh. Murris wore all of this and more, with a tool belt and large pouches for holding various bits and pieces of his trade.
The eshtran passed Murris a small canister with a breathing mask on it and Murris inhaled some of the purified air, holding his breath and closing his eyes for a moment before handing the cylinder over to Emos, who did the same and then gave it back to the eshtran. Every diver had to have one last breath of pure air before the dive in case he died. Braskhiams had to meet their god with clean lungs. Murris let his breath out and made a motion with his hand from mouth to chest and back again and then pulled on his own breathing mask. He took several breaths to make sure air was feeding through. Emos pulled down his mask, checked his own air flow and then they waited as a deckhand pulled up a section of the boat’s rail to clear the way over the side.
Emos went first; being the less experienced diver, he could be helped more easily from above if he ran into problems and would be less of a danger to his partner. He climbed down the side of the esh-boat using the foot and handholds that ran down the hull. As he reached the surface of the sessium, the gas of the esh, he looked up to see Murris following him down, both of them linked by the rope that trailed up the side to the deck. When Murris got down to the Myunan’s side, he pulled up his mask:
‘Right, you know how it goes – there’s only one speed underesh: nice and slow. Take your time, whatever you’re doing. That wreck’s not going anywhere. It’s pretty shallow here, so we’ll be going straight to the bottom, no stages. Breathe slow and easy. Don’t hold your breath. Keep me in sight at all times, and watch for my signals. Let’s go.’
The one thing that Emos always missed most about diving in the esh was sound. Everything was muffled down there, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton wool. As he dropped beneath the surface of the sessium, the sounds of the men moving up on deck became dull thuds through the wooden hull. His air hissed in along the hose from the pump and he exhaled out of the mask’s valves. As the side of the esh-boat curved down away from him, he tested the rope by settling his whole weight into the harness, and then let go of the hull. There was a moment of butterflies in his stomach as he swung back and forth slightly, and then he was lowered further, swinging again as Murris let go above him. The winch on the deck dropped them down through the yellow-tinted white of the esh, light filtering down in a haze from the sky above them.
Emos could see esh floaters around them and hear their calls. The bass boom of flocks of round dunds, the crackling clicks from swarms of paper-thin interts, and the lazy, buzzing drone of a sleek spatch as it glided by with the fluid grace of a predator. The esh grew darker and thicker as they went down and, by the time his feet touched the ground, Emos could see only a few strides in any direction. He held up his glowjar and that helped. He stepped to the side in time to get out of Murris’s way as he landed, and the engineer led him to the point where the buoy was anchored.
They were surrounded by an eshweed called the bubule, a plant that grew to the Myunan’s shoulder height. They had to push it out of their path and keep their air hoses clear of it as they trudged through the gas. The plant’s fronds left greasy marks on their clothes as they brushed past.
The frigatch came into sight. It had been a streamlined and handsome vessel in its day, heavily armed with harpoon guns, but now it was furry with fungus and moss, and hundreds of different esh creatures had made it their home. Murris led the way towards it, watching for hazards and studying the position of the wreck carefully. It lay at the base of the huge rock that had torn open its hulls. The gaping holes were clearly visible and Emos could imagine the terror of the crew as the ship had sunk below the surface. The holes were huge; the Kartharic ship would have sunk quickly, upending and plunging down through the sessium. Most of the men would have died instantly; some would have survived their injuries only to suffocate.
Emos arched his neck, gazing upwards through the foggy depths, but the dull yellow glow was all that could be seen of daylight, and the air that was keeping him alive. Even as he looked up, a faint but distinct smell of paraffin filled his mask. Smells were used as signals to divers, garlic for bad weather, wood polish for a time check … paraffin was danger. The hiss of his breathing through the valves grew faster as his heart began pounding and he looked instinctively up through the gas, feeling suddenly hampered by all his equipment. He and Murris turned as one and hurried back through the tangle of the bubules to the point below the Lightfoot where they had landed. Murris wound in the slack of the safety rope and jerked hard on it three times. Moments later, the rope started disappearing up into the gas, pulling taut and lifting first Murris, then Emos, up towards the trawvette.
Frantic hands pulled them on board and Murris stripped off his mask to ask:
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Sitting off the bow was a Karthar war frigatch, a more fearsome version of the vessel that lay beneath the esh, and its harpoons were trained on the Lightfoot. The fishing boat’s captain looked down from his bridge at Murris
and shook his head. They would not be diving again today. They were in disputed territory here, and their little trawvette was no match for a battleship. Murris cursed and shrugged out of his harness.
‘That cargo was ours for the taking. Salvage is fair game and they know it,’ he growled to Emos. ‘But there’s no messing with those war frigatches.’
Emos’s thoughts went to the wreck beneath their feet. ‘Not unless you have the esh on your side,’ he murmured.
Emos woke with a start as someone slammed a tankard of mead down on the table before him. He was taken aback to find himself staring into the face of a Karthar, but then relaxed when he realised he was in the tavern and he recognised the crooked-toothed grin.
‘Emos Harprag! Haven’t seen you in an age, get some of that drink down your neck, man – you look half dead!’ The Karthar flopped into the seat beside him and thumped his shoulder.
Emos managed a tired smile, and raised the tankard in salute, before taking a sip. The Karthar who had just sat down at the table was a merchant eshsailor named Neblisk, whom Emos had not seen in several seasons.
‘So, what brings you to Hortenz?’ Neblisk asked, taking a swig of his own drink.
‘I’m after two errant children. I could ask you the same question. I haven’t seen you around here in a while.’
‘Business with the Noranians,’ the Karthar replied. ‘Had to moor the ship just off the coast not far from here. They don’t want us coming near Noran. It’s all a bit hush-hush, you know.’
Emos raised an eyebrow. Neblisk specialised in hush-hush. He could get anything for anyone who would pay, and he could do it quietly. Unlike most Karthars, he was not a religious man, preferring to devote himself to the making of money.
‘What use would the Noranians have for you?’ the Myunan asked. ‘I would have thought they could look after themselves.’
‘You might think that,’ Neblisk replied. ‘But sooner or later, everyone comes to Neblisk. It seems that the Braskhiams have not been too friendly of late, and the Noranians needed some special … esh-related items. Not a word, mind you. I know I can count on your discretion, Emos. Particularly since you don’t normally talk to anyone anyway.’
Neblisk, on the other hand, seemed unusually eager to talk, so Emos took another drink of his mead and let the Karthar fill the silence. With three short, downward-pointing horns over a long goateed face, and thick grey hair over most of his body, the Karthar was like no other man in the room. He had four thumbs, one on each side of each hand and he had the long arms and short legs of a climber. He shifted in his seat and turned his tankard between his hands.
‘These Noranians I’m dealing with think the Braskhiams are set to declare war on the Kartharic Peaks. They want it stopped, so they’re preparing something that will teach the Braskhiams a lesson. Don’t ask me what. It all went over my head.’
‘What did they ask you to get for them?’ Emos asked casually.
‘Odd stuff, really. Eshweed seeds, diving gear, underesh charts of the coast. Things they could normally only get from the Braskhiams. All very mysterious, if you ask me.’
Emos looked up sharply at this. He was remembering the scene he had witnessed in the square, the strange people who had come through the broken wall. He stared out the window into the square as he ran the events through his mind. The people had smelled of something that he had recognised, but could not put his finger on. Neblisk, he suddenly realised, had the same smell, but he had just got off a boat. Those people had smelled of the esh, and yet they had all the appearance of having been working in a garden. But why had the Noranians sent in catchwagons and foot soldiers when the wall came down? No garden could be that valuable.
Now that he thought about it, the men had worn long beards, and had been dressed like peasants … like the dead man in the esh. That man had carried soil samples and gardening tools.
Neblisk glanced around the crowded room, squinting through the smoke to ensure no one was listening. ‘I was hoping to find Draegar, to see if he’d made any new coastal charts lately.’
Emos nodded, distracted from his thoughts.
‘I was hoping to bump into him myself. I could do with his help finding the children. This lesson that the Braskhiams are going to learn – is it going to hurt anyone?’
‘All the hardest lessons hurt, Emos. They want a war. They need to be persuaded otherwise.’
‘They say it’s the Karthars who want the war.’
‘And who do you believe?’ Neblisk leaned towards the Myunan.
‘I think if you both keep accusing each other, then soon it won’t matter.’ Emos returned the Karthar’s gaze. ‘And you say the Noranians don’t want it to happen?’
‘Nobody in their right minds wants it to happen,’ Neblisk grunted. ‘Have you ever been to war, Emos?’
‘I was never a soldier, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I was a cabin boy on my father’s ship during the war against Noran all those years ago. My father was wounded, a small wound in the arm, but it got infected with the rot. We were near the Braskhiam coast, but they wouldn’t let us land as they were allied to Noran. We set out for the Peaks but we were too far from home to get him to a healer in time. I watched the ship’s carpenter saw off my father’s arm to stop the rot reaching his body and killing him. Father had nothing to kill the pain, just a piece of rope to bite on, and some men to hold him still.
‘Only a fool looks for war, Emos, but if the Braskhiams start something, then the Karthars have the will to finish it.’
‘And you’re sure they are starting something?’ Emos urged. ‘It’s not just rumours and back-biting?’
‘My boat was attacked out in the Gulf of Braskhia not long ago. Attacked by a Braskhiam vessel. We escaped with our lives, but not before they put some crossbow bolts through our sails.’
‘It’s fortunate you lived to tell about it,’ the Myunan said, almost to himself.
He was troubled – the Braskhiams had high-powered harpoons fired with compressed gas. Braskhiam vessels did not carry crossbows. Nor, for that matter, did Karthar ships.
‘Two children, did you say?’ Neblisk sat up suddenly. ‘Didn’t two Myunan cubs try to break a man out of a Noranian convoy last night? I heard they set the skacks on them.’
As it approached the forbidding gates of Hortenz, the convoy of gaol wagons and armoured vehicles slowed, waiting as the Whipholder’s lead vehicle drove ahead to show his papers and gain entry. Once the guard had waved them through, the convoy rolled under the stone arch and into the town.
In the shaking and shifting gaol wagon, Groach considered his options. To keep quiet and go unrecognised, which might mean more misery for the other men. Or, to announce who he was in the hope that he would be put back on the project and the men released, which might not happen. He decided to wait and see what the Noranians did next.
The six gaol wagons split off from the other vehicles at the town square and turned into the barracks’ compound, where the gates closed behind them. The barracks was a menacing rectangle of grey plastered stone buildings with towers at two corners. The walls had no windows looking out on the town; they were high and solid, with walkways to allow guards to patrol around the top and see through the triangular battlements that looked like the teeth of a trap. The towers had slits to allow light in on each floor and crossbows to be aimed out. Altogether, it was a place that was built to be easy to defend … and hard to escape. Shessil Groach looked about him with a sinking heart.
Guards unlocked the cages, and the men were made jump down and stand in line before a small, slight man in a grey waistcoat and shirt, green trousers and jacket, and a string tie held in place with a silver clasp. He had wispy blond hair that was so thin on his scalp as to be almost invisible, and his skin was like taut tissue paper, barely hiding the blue veins beneath. He regarded the prisoners without emotion. It was obvious that they were a task to be completed and nothing more.
Groach moved to get out of the
wagon and was pushed back inside by a guard. He was not a part of these proceedings. The small man inspected a notebook in one hand and then brought his gaze back to rest on the men.
‘My name is Rulp Mungret. I am the aide of His Most Political Wonder, the Prime Ministrate, Rak Ek Namen. I have one question to ask of you men. If I receive a satisfactory answer, you can all return to your homes. If not, you will all remain in the cells beneath this barracks until such time as I receive that answer. The question is this: I am looking for a man named Shessil Groach. Is he here among you?’
There was complete silence. The men scanned each others’ faces for a reaction. Then there was a clamour of protests as each man shouted out who they were and where they were from. Groach watched and listened, and decided he must come clean. These men did not belong here.
‘I’m Shessil Groach!’ he yelled.
Some of the men heard him, but Mungret was at the other end of the yard. Groach opened his mouth to call out again, and was quickly silenced by a punch in the face. He fell back, clutching his bloody nose, his eyes watering and blurring his sight. A hand pulled him to the bars and a rough voice hissed in his ear:
‘You’ll be staying with me, little maggot. Not another word from you or I’ll kill you and your woman friend right here. You’ll be staying with me.’
Left-Speartrooper Grulk thumped him in the ribs for good measure, knocking the wind out of him, and stood back. The other men were being herded into the barracks. Mungret had decided to hold them for a few days, just to be on the safe side. Groach and Hilspeth were taken from their cage and dragged in opposite directions, to different parts of the barracks.
Through half-closed eyes, Groach saw to his dismay that Grulk was one of the guards gripping his arms. She was a demon, he decided. Come to haunt and perhaps even kill him. He wished he had never broken out of the project; he wished he had never seen those two warped children or Hilspeth, or the teapot that had got him into this mess. He was pushed and kicked down a flight of metal steps into a dark, cramped room with a corridor leading off it. A scaly, stumpy creature without armour, but otherwise dressed in the same style of clothing as the soldiers, greeted them. He stood up from behind his battered desk and came around to inspect the prisoner.
