The Harvest Tide Project Read Free

Emos and stepped quickly back. Like others among the crew, he seemed uneasy around Myunans. Emos was not bothered; it was still better than the treatment he received from his own people. He unbuckled the satchel and opened the flap, emptying its contents onto the deck. He frowned. There was a trowel, an auger, a gardening fork, a small pair of shears and some more soil samples. There was also a sheaf of notes on parchment.
    â€˜None of us can read them,’ Murris told him. ‘They’re in a language we’ve never seen before.’
    â€˜Actually, I think you have,’ Emos replied. ‘It’s Sestinian, but he’s used shorthand, a type their scientists use for making quick notes. These are measurements for things like fertiliser, moisture levels, temperature … but what was this man doing walking around at the bottom of the esh?’
    â€˜That’s what we’d like to know,’ Murris said. ‘And why did someone feel the need to kill him?’
    â€˜Well,’ Emos shrugged. ‘Judging by this, he was involved in nothing more mysterious than gardening, if in a slightly unusual location …’
    He stopped. One page in particular appeared to have been written in haste, as if the man was excited or upset. There was one last line scrawled across the bottom of the page. Murris looked over his shoulder.
    â€˜What does it say?’ he asked.
    â€˜It says, “How many people will die?”’
    Emos looked up at Murris.
    â€˜This might be something we need to know about.’

    Emos Harprag lived on his small farm in Braskhia, a day’s walk from Rutledge-on-Coast, having given up the nomad life of a Myunan and settled down to make a living raising crops and livestock. The land was fertile and was also close enough to the esh to see the Harvest Tide every year. He had been exiled from his tribe years before, and his only contact now with the Myunans was the occasional, discreet visit from the Archisans: his sister, her husband and their two children. Sometimes they left his niece and nephew with him to stay for a few weeks. It was good for the children to experience a different way of life, and Emos was not the type to back down from a challenge.
    It was late in the day when Murris left him back to his gate and waved him goodbye. They were both troubled by what they had seen and the ominous warning in the dead man’s notes. With his mind mulling over the mystery, it took him some time to notice that there was no sign of his niece and nephew. From somewhere, he could hear the faint sound of a cat wailing.
    The tapestry on the wall of his travel room was crooked. Breath hissing through gritted teeth, he opened the hidden door and hurried down the steps. Lorkrin and Taya had entered his studio. He should never have left them alone in the house for so long. A valuable sheet of ancient Parsinor curses shrieked from the floor at the bottom of the stairs. He silenced the hex by licking his finger and thumb and pinching the torn ends together. He soon discovered that the littlemaggots hadn’t stopped at damaging the scroll. They’d made off with one of his transmorphing quills. He stormed back up the stairs and slammed the door shut behind him, his normally impassive face tensed in fury.
    Emos packed his tools and some other essentials in a backpack, locked up his farmhouse and set out to track them down. He knew they would run, but he had tracked and killed more cunning prey than them and he would see them punished before the week was out.
    They had left in such a hurry that they had not even bothered to try to hide their trail, so he followed at a fast pace, his eyes, ears and nose seeking out any sign of Taya and Lorkrin, but his mind occupied with what he had seen in Rutledge that day.
    The mix of the dead man’s military and peasant equipment , the notes made by someone with a scientific education , the way he had been murdered in cold blood –