The Harvest Tide Project by Oisin McGann

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 thesessium. 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