Chapter 803: “Festivity”
Simbady had thought it was a bluff. He had never imagined the Osha clan was serious.
When their warriors moved to carry out the punishment, a clash broke out. Over fifty people — those who found the discipline unreasonable and tried to run — struggled against the ones sent to catch them. Unarmed, the resisters lost quickly to Osha warriors armed with clubs and shields. They were stripped and pressed face-down into the sand.
Thuram whipped them himself.
The sight inflamed the watching crowd. Several veered toward open confrontation, but the flintlocks in the Graycastle soldiers’ hands held them back. Everyone had heard what had happened to the desert watchmen the night of the holy duel — even cavalry swift as wind had not breached the Graycastle defensive line. Those same shining iron weapons kept the crowd from doing what they wanted to do.
Screams and sobbing filled the beach.
Osha did not intend to flog the men to death. When the bleeding backs had been shown to everyone, wounds were cleaned with herbs and wrapped with gauze. In the freezing Months of Demons, plague rarely took hold. As long as a man was strong to begin with, he would survive a whipping.
Carlone and most of the Fishbone clanspeople were furious. Molly was not.
Once it was over, the group formed two lines and moved inland under the rhythm of a whistle. Thuram said nothing more, and the procession ordered itself without being told. The lesson had worked.
Near the iron tower, Simbady found something he could only call a dying oasis — more precisely, a pond. This, presumably, was the water source Thuram had mentioned. No shade fell across the water; only a few withered bushes clung to the edges. The pond was shallow, no deeper than a man’s height, and its surface glittered meagerly in the light. It had probably been a full oasis decades ago, when the Silver Stream’s underground veins still ran strong. As those veins had dwindled, the oasis had shrunk to this. What remained was the last seep of a dying underground stream, and even that would vanish under the summer sun before anyone could drain it.
Simbady had seen ruins like this before.
If the Graycastle men could not find a new water source within two or three months, they would have no choice but to leave. The idea of a town here was not merely ambitious — it was impossible.
Thuram did not pretend otherwise. “You see this pond?” he called to the group. “This is our only drinking water for the months ahead. For everything else, find somewhere else to relieve yourself. Understood?”
“What about food?” a voice asked.
“Food will be delivered. If supplies fall short, we can fish.” Thuram’s tone closed the subject.
The assurance of food and water — however meager — eased the tension by a small degree. The group spread out and began to pitch tents under the direction of Osha supervisors.
Every Sand Nation person knew how to raise and strike a tent quickly. Sheepskin shelters held three to six people; one person carried all the tools needed to erect one. The four women of the Fishbone Clan who had applied for this work set up three tents arrayed in a triangle, each door facing outward so they could warn one another in case of trouble. It was the simplest defensive arrangement there was.
In the afternoon, Thuram’s whistle called them again, this time toward the beach.
What Simbady found there surprised him. The northerners had clearly been at work for some time. Across a broad flat stretch of sand stood dozens of short wooden poles, each connected by white ropes, the ropes dividing the ground into large rectangles. Each rectangle stretched at least sixty meters in length. What astonished him was that they were all precisely the same size — every corner exact, every edge measured — over a span of sixty meters. He did not know how they had managed it.
He counted fifty or sixty rectangles by rough estimate, and Graycastle men with strange instruments were still driving in more poles, apparently intending to mark every patch of ground within sight.
“You’re finally here.” A tall man stepped up to Thuram. “My name is Kencury. I was a member of the Mason Guild in the old king’s city.” He paused, seeming to realize this explained nothing to anyone present. “Well, you’ve probably never heard of the Mason Guild. Few people in Graycastle remember it now. Thanks to the benevolent king who agreed to hire us, we have work again — otherwise I’m not sure where any of us would have ended up. But that’s a story for another time.” He coughed and clapped Thuram on the shoulder. “Anyway — I’ll be directing the construction of Endless Cape. I take it you’re the supervisor Miss Echo appointed?”
Echo? That was Lady Drow Silvermoon’s given name. Simbady was struck by the easy familiarity with which this Kencury addressed the chief at the same level as himself.
Thuram, unaccustomed to Kencury’s meandering warmth, managed a stiff smile. He stepped back and bowed. “Just call me Thuram. Tell me what the men should do, and I’ll see that it gets done. Anyone who slacks off will answer to me.”
Kencury stretched his arms wide to address the assembled workers. “Very well! There’s no tavern here, and no women — that kind of woman, I mean. Ahem. So your full attention goes to construction. Your first task is straightforward: dig a hole in each of those white rectangles until the sand reaches your knees.”
No one moved. Silence settled, thick and awkward.
Thuram’s brows came up. “Are you all deaf? Get moving!” His voice carried its usual edge, though a flicker of satisfaction showed in his eyes.
But Kencury raised a hand. “Wait — no need to rush. I haven’t told them why we’re digging.”
“Sir, you don’t need to explain—”
“No, no, no.” Kencury clapped his hands together. “His Majesty once said something I entirely agree with. He calls it pro… proactivity. Yes, that’s the word! The idea is that once a person understands the reason behind his work, he becomes more productive. So listen carefully.” He paused for effect. “These holes will determine whether we can live here. They are the key to turning seawater into drinking water.”
The group stirred.
“The principle is simple — only His Majesty thought of it. It works like boiling water. We fill these holes with seawater. The sun heats the water and turns it to vapor. We capture the vapor and get clean drinking water.” Kencury moved his hands to illustrate. “Don’t worry if you can’t follow the reasoning. Think of it this way: the ocean is one enormous pool of bitter, salty water. If we can separate the salt from the water, the entire Swirl Sea becomes our drinking source.”
Simbady stood very still. He had doubts — more than a few — not only about whether the second half of that explanation was sound, but about the simpler problem: how, exactly, did one capture something as intangible as vapor?
Kencury clenched his fist, his voice rising. “Production will naturally be limited. One rectangle can supply water for perhaps a dozen people, so we must build a great many conversion sheds to serve the hundreds working here. You should feel fortunate — His Majesty has given special attention to this plan. This is the second town he has personally named, after Neverwinter itself. To mark the unification of the Southernmost Region, His Majesty has given it the name Festivity. You are not only the builders of Festive Harbor — you are its first residents.”
Chapter 803: “Festivity”
Translator: TransN Editor: TransN
Simbady had thought it was just a bluff. He had never expected Osha clan was serious.
When the warriors from Osha clan were about to execute the order, a clash broke out between the two groups. Over 50 people, who regarded the punishment as unreasonable and attempted to escape the discipline, started to tussle with the ones who tried to catch them.
Unarmed, the wrongdoers soon lost their battle to Osha clan equipped with clubs and shields. They were, as a result, stripped naked and prostrated to the sandy ground.
Thuram whipped them himself.
The whipping scene inflamed some of the spectators, who were on the verge of starting a virulent altercation but were eventually deterred by the flintlocks carried by Graycastle men.
Everybody had learned the miserable defeat of the watchdog in the oasis that night.
Even cavalrymen swift like winds had failed to penetrate Graycastle’s defensive line.
What had crushed them was exactly the same shiny iron weapons in those soldiers’ hands.
In a second, screams and shrieks filled the bank.
Osha did not plan to flog those clansmen to death. After he showed their bleeding backs to the whole group, he instructed them to treat the wounds with herbs and bandage them with gauze. Normally, there was rarely any plague in the freezing Months of Demons. As long as they were physically strong, they should survive the whipping.
Carlone and most of the clansmen were outraged, except Molly, who rejoiced over the punishment.
After the fearsome whipping was over, the group formed two lines and headed to the depth of the desert under the guidance of the whistle.
Thuram did not utter a word, but everybody became automatically selfdisciplined. The procession was in an exceptional order.
When they were close to an iron tower, Simbady discovered a drying oasis, or rather a pond. This was probably what Thuram referred to as the water fountain for the vanguard. No shades of trees overhung the pond, except a few dying bushes around it. The pond was very shallow, the depth of which was no more than a man’s height. Perhaps, it had been a verdant oasis a few decades ago. However, as the water vein of Silver Stream gradually diminished, the oasis, in the end, reduced to a cup of sand.
The pond would not even suffice to provide drinking water for the few hundred labors working here, let alone to nurture a tribe. That water could still be seen was because of the remnant of underground streams. Once summer came, those meager water would soon evaporate under the scorching sun. Even if no one drank the water, the pond would become completely dry in no time.
Simbady had seen a lot of ruins of oasis like this.
In other words, if those Graycastle men failed to find a new water source within two or three months, they would have no choice but to leave this land, not to mention establishing a new town.
Thuram did not pretend that he was not aware of the scarcity of the water. He hollered at the team, “Do you see this pond here? This is going to be the only
drinking water for us in the next couple of months. So, make your water elsewhere. Are you all clear?”
“What about… food?” someone asked.
“Somebody will deliver food to us. If there isn’t enough, we can go fishing,” Thuram replied.
Hearing they would at least have food and water, all the clans relieved a little bit. The group thus dispersed and pitched their tents based on the instructions of the supervisor from Osha clan.
How to quickly set up and take down a tent was a must-have life skill for every sand nation. A tent made of sheepskin could shelter three to six people, and usually, one person was responsible to carry all the required tools and equipment. There were only four women from Fishbone clan who had applied for the job, so they erected three tents which arrayed in a triangle shape, each of which was fastened by a rope. The door of each tent was flung open facing outward, as a way to alert each other in case of danger. This was the simplest tent arrangement among all.
In the afternoon, Thuram whistled again and summoned everybody. He then took them to a place close to the beach.
Simbady was surprised to find out that northerners had conducted a thorough search here.
On the flat sandy ground stood numerous short wooden poles, each pole tied to a white rope. Like dividing domains, these ropes and poles segmented the land into many huge rectangles. Each rectangle was 60 meters in length at least.
The most incredible thing was that all the rectangles were of the same size, every edge and corner of which was precisely marked and measured. Simbady wondered how they did that within a distance of 60 meters.
There were 50 or 60 rectangles marked out by white ropes by a rough count. Simbady also saw some Graycastle men keep marking the land with wooden
poles, with strange tools in their hands. It seemed they planned to continue to do so until all the land in their sights was covered.
“You’re finally here.” A tall man came up to Thuram. “My name is Kencury. I’m a former member of the Mason Guild in the old king’s city… Well, you’ve probably never heard of this organization. Even in Graycastle, few people remember the Mason Guild these days. Thanks to the benevolent king who’s willing to hire us, we’re able to settle down. Otherwise, we probably don’t know where we’ll end up … Um, that’s not quite right. Let’s leave this matter at a later date.” The man coughed and patted Thuram on his shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll be responsible for the construction of Endless Cape. I assume you’re the supervisor appointed by Miss Echo, right?”
Echo? Isn’t it Lady Drow Silvermoon’s nickname? Simbady was shocked by the fact that the Graycastle men named Kencury sat as equal with the chief at the same table!
Not custom to the small talks and Kencury’s overelaborate formalities, Thuram made a stiff smile. He stepped back and bowed. “Please call me Thuram. As to those lads, just let me know what they should do. If anyone slacks off, I’ll punish them severely.”
Apparently, Thuram had received instructions from the chief of Osha clan, for he paid great respects to Kencury. But Simbady knew it was those Graycastle soldiers guarding this area that Thuram was truly afraid of.
Kencury stretched out his arms. “Very well. Guys, there’s no tavern or woman here. Ahem, I mean that kind of woman. So, concentrate on the construction! The first task for you is very simple, which is digging holes. See those white rectangles? Dig a hole in each rectangle until the sand has reached your knees!”
For a moment, nobody responded. There was an embarrassing silence.
Thuram’s brows went up. He bellowed, “Are you guys all deaf? Get your ass moving!” He sounded quite ill-tempered, but a hint of triumph in his eyes betrayed his complacency.
But Kencury raised his hand and stopped Thuram. “Hang on… No need to rush. I haven’t explained to them why we have to dig those holes.”
“Sir, you don’t have to explain to them…”
“No, no, no. His Majesty once said something that I can’t agree more. He calls it pro… proactivity. Right, that’s the word!” Kencury clapped his hand. “It roughly means that once a person knows the reason behind his labor, he’ll become more productive. So, listen carefully… These holes will determine whether we can live here in the future! These holes…” He paused for a second and then continued, “are the key to converting seawater to drinking water!”
The group immediately stirred up at these words.
“The mechanism behind this is very simple, but only King Roland thought of it. It’s just like boiling water—we are going to first feed these holes with seawater. Once the water is heated up by the sun and turns into water vapor, we collect them to get pure drinking water.” Kencury even used his hands to further explain the matter, “It’s OK you don’t understand. You just view the ocean as a giant pool of bitter water saturated with salt. If we can separate the salt from the water, the whole Swirl Sea will become our drinking water source!”
Simbady was rooted to the ground. He doubted if this project was realistic. Put aside the validity of the theory in the latter half of his speech. He wondered how they were going to collect such intangible things as water vapor.
Kencury clenched his fist. “The production will naturally be very limited. One rectangle can only provide water for a dozen people. Therefore, we have to build a large number of conversion sheds to supply water for hundreds of workers here! You should all feel lucky, for His Majesty pays special attention to the construction plan of Endless Cape. This is also the second town named by the king other than Neverwinter. To celebrate the unification of the Southernmost Region, His Majesty endowed the town with the name ‘Festivity’, and you guys are not only the builders of Festive Harbor but also the first residents who settled down here!”