curving arc enclosing the town on the west and north; the other two boundaries would normally be marked by the snaking meander of the river, which was now only discernible as an area of slow-moving water not broken by emergent trees and huts.
The northern end of the stockade was completely clear of the water, the land raised to form an island. As the ground fell away from there, the stockade followed its contours until its mud and timber construction formed a dyke enclosing the flooded part of the town.
Within the defences, walkways raised on pontoons connected the dwellings, narrow thoroughfares dipping and bobbing on the water. The podhuts themselves were supported by inflated bladders, anchored in place to great stakes that had been driven into the ground.
Flint had never seen Greenwater in flood, had never quite been able to envisage it like this, despite the tales of Clarel, Mesteb and the others. He wondered at the mentality of a people–his relatives!–who lived with this annual inundation.
Even at this distance, he saw the figures of people in the town, on precarious walkways, in boats and rafts, passing along the top of the stockade, and out in the open streets in the dry sector of town.
And already, he felt his pulse quickening, wondering if Amber was here ahead of him, if it really could be as simple as all that. He prayed fervently that it could.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he started to walk down the track to Greenwater.
~
“I am Flintreco Eltarn,” he said again, his voice raised to carry across the water. “I have come to visit my Aunt Clareltreco Elphelim.”
The boy atop the stockade still stared, still kept his wall-mounted crossbow directed towards Flint. The boy was barely into adolescence and his grubby features and tattered clothing–and that mad stare–made Flint suddenly fearful of what he would find in Greenwater. Had they all been struck by the changing plague? Had they been taken over by some degenerate subhuman mob?
The boy glanced to one side, as a man came to join him. “Flintreco?” he said. “Travelling alone?”
Flint thought he recognised this man as an occasional visitor to Trecosann. He nodded. “It is a matter of urgency,” he said. “My sister, Amberline, is in danger. I’m looking for her. Can I come in?”
The man nodded. “I know him,” he said to the boy with the crossbow. He reached down and did something behind the wall and suddenly great eructations of gas popped from the water before Flint, as a series of bladders inflated, thrusting a walkway above the surface.
He stepped onto the bridge, more stable than he had expected. Ahead of him, a gate opened outwards, welcoming him, finally, to Greenwater.
~
“Petertreco,” said Flint, stopping before the man, just inside the Greenwater gates. The name had come to him as he traversed the walkway, waters thick with green algal scum lapping tamely to either side. “Thank you for allowing me to enter.”
Peter stood nonchalantly, a small-axe hanging loosely from one hand. “It must be urgent indeed for you to travel alone through the wilds,” he said. His eyes were calculating, assessing Flint for threat, for signs of change.
“I travelled in a group as far as Farsamy Way,” said Flint. “I came directly here when my friends headed south. My sister Amber disappeared two days ago. Despite our searches, we have not found her. She has quite clearly left Trecosann and, if she travels voluntarily, then her most likely destination is Greenwater.”
The two of them stood on a narrow wedge of raised land behind the stockade. Above, the boy and some other young men stood on the town’s defences, leaning precariously down to hear what was said.
It was only when he saw how poorly these people dressed that he recalled his impressions of this place from his earlier visit as a boy: of people who had to work hard merely to carve an existence out of the jungle, a meaner, leaner level of subsistence than
The northern end of the stockade was completely clear of the water, the land raised to form an island. As the ground fell away from there, the stockade followed its contours until its mud and timber construction formed a dyke enclosing the flooded part of the town.
Within the defences, walkways raised on pontoons connected the dwellings, narrow thoroughfares dipping and bobbing on the water. The podhuts themselves were supported by inflated bladders, anchored in place to great stakes that had been driven into the ground.
Flint had never seen Greenwater in flood, had never quite been able to envisage it like this, despite the tales of Clarel, Mesteb and the others. He wondered at the mentality of a people–his relatives!–who lived with this annual inundation.
Even at this distance, he saw the figures of people in the town, on precarious walkways, in boats and rafts, passing along the top of the stockade, and out in the open streets in the dry sector of town.
And already, he felt his pulse quickening, wondering if Amber was here ahead of him, if it really could be as simple as all that. He prayed fervently that it could.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he started to walk down the track to Greenwater.
~
“I am Flintreco Eltarn,” he said again, his voice raised to carry across the water. “I have come to visit my Aunt Clareltreco Elphelim.”
The boy atop the stockade still stared, still kept his wall-mounted crossbow directed towards Flint. The boy was barely into adolescence and his grubby features and tattered clothing–and that mad stare–made Flint suddenly fearful of what he would find in Greenwater. Had they all been struck by the changing plague? Had they been taken over by some degenerate subhuman mob?
The boy glanced to one side, as a man came to join him. “Flintreco?” he said. “Travelling alone?”
Flint thought he recognised this man as an occasional visitor to Trecosann. He nodded. “It is a matter of urgency,” he said. “My sister, Amberline, is in danger. I’m looking for her. Can I come in?”
The man nodded. “I know him,” he said to the boy with the crossbow. He reached down and did something behind the wall and suddenly great eructations of gas popped from the water before Flint, as a series of bladders inflated, thrusting a walkway above the surface.
He stepped onto the bridge, more stable than he had expected. Ahead of him, a gate opened outwards, welcoming him, finally, to Greenwater.
~
“Petertreco,” said Flint, stopping before the man, just inside the Greenwater gates. The name had come to him as he traversed the walkway, waters thick with green algal scum lapping tamely to either side. “Thank you for allowing me to enter.”
Peter stood nonchalantly, a small-axe hanging loosely from one hand. “It must be urgent indeed for you to travel alone through the wilds,” he said. His eyes were calculating, assessing Flint for threat, for signs of change.
“I travelled in a group as far as Farsamy Way,” said Flint. “I came directly here when my friends headed south. My sister Amber disappeared two days ago. Despite our searches, we have not found her. She has quite clearly left Trecosann and, if she travels voluntarily, then her most likely destination is Greenwater.”
The two of them stood on a narrow wedge of raised land behind the stockade. Above, the boy and some other young men stood on the town’s defences, leaning precariously down to hear what was said.
It was only when he saw how poorly these people dressed that he recalled his impressions of this place from his earlier visit as a boy: of people who had to work hard merely to carve an existence out of the jungle, a meaner, leaner level of subsistence than
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