The Harvest Tide Project Read Online Free PDF Page B

bit late for that,’ Namen grunted. ‘If Braskhia were not so strong, it would have been part of Noran by now. But with their technology and their mastery of the esh … If they were inclined to, they could build an empire for themselves. We must keep them on our side. The Karthars lie off our coast in readiness to invade and while they stay out on the esh, we can only watch and wait. Our fleet is no match for theirs.’
    The Prime Ministrate fell silent, brooding. He had taken a failing empire and rebuilt it, making the Noranians one of the most powerful civilisations in history, but for all its might, the empire still relied on the ingenious technology from the nation of Braskhia.
    ‘The Groundsmaster and his group are coming along well, but they still do not have results,’ he continued. ‘It could be some time yet before we’re ready. We will have to tolerate the Karthars until we are ready to face them on my terms.’
    He turned his attention to the street they were passing through. People were waving and cheering at him. The Prime Ministrate flashed them a beaming smile and raised his hand in salute. The carriages passed out the gate and left the town behind. Namen sighed. Taking his pipe from his pocket, he stoked it with tobacco and lit it with a match, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Mungret, who had a bad chest, muffled his coughs as best he could.

    Shessil Groach felt himself carried gently with the flow of the river. He had tried swimming across the strong current and discovered that the more he thrashed around, the closer he came to drowning, so now he just relaxed and let the river take him wherever it wanted to go. It was quite pleasant.
    As time wore on, however, he noticed that the light was fading. Evening was falling, and it would be getting cooler. It would not be wise to be floating down a strange river in the dark. Not having yet mastered swimming, he was not sure what he was going to do about getting out. A few minutes later, he caught sight of a tree in the middle of the river.
    It was an eb-tree. There was no mistaking the way it floated in mid-stream like that, supported by a wide base of roots and rotting vegetation. Slumped on this base under the leafy shade was a man, a fishing rod jammed into the roots beside him. He was obviously asleep, and was not going to see Groach, who was floating right towards him.
    ‘Hey!’ Groach shouted. ‘Hey you! Help me here, will you?’
    The man awoke with a start and stared at the swimmer in surprise. He was standing up to get a better look when his fishing line started to jerk. Torn between reeling in the fish and helping the unknown man out of the water, the fisherman froze for a moment with indecision. His instincts took over and he seized the rod. Groach took the knotted roots of the tree full in the chest and hung there, stunned. The fisherman wound in the flapping carp with a practised motion and swiped its head against the trunk, before dropping it into a waiting basket. He reached down and grabbed Groach, who was beginning to slide under the base, and hauled him, and his satchel, out of the water in much the same way he had done the fish.
    ‘Well you’re a drownded rat and no mistake,’ he grunted, as if he pulled people from the river on a regular basis. ‘Uncommon for someone to be swimmin’ with all their clothes on like that, but then I suppose it’s another one of these new trends.’
    ‘Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful,’ Groach panted.
    The fisherman was tall and wiry; his long, thin arms were brown, as was his face, with sleepy dark eyes surrounded by wrinkles. Pigtails hung down either side of his face, and he had a long nose and a narrow mouth that was short of teeth. He was in a blue shirt and ruddy trousers that were cut short at the knees. He had long legs and, judging by his boots, his feet were enormous.
    ‘Brock Moffet’s my name,’ he said.
    ‘Shessil Groach. Delighted to meet you.’
    ‘Yes, well. Never seen