Drowned Ammet by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

not!” said Milda. “I’ve trained Mitt for this for years. And the clothes won’t fit him if we have to wait another year.”
    Siriol thought, in his customary unhurried way. “If the Palace thinks of staying at home,” he said, “we’ll hear it soon enough on the grapevine. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t do no harm to see if we couldn’t start a bit of a panic. Go round letting on that it’ll be terrible bad luck for Holand to stop the Festival, and that kind of thing.”
    So the Free Holanders dropped a word here and another there. Most of them were content simply to hint at dire bad luck. But Mitt felt he could not leave things so much to chance. Whenever Hobin was not by to listen, Mitt would whisper passionately to anyone who happened to be in the workshop, of floods, fires, famines, and plagues. “And that’s just the least of what’ll happen if old Hadd’s too scared to hold the Festival,” he would conclude, and pull a dreadful face to suggest all the other unspeakable kinds of bad luck. When Milda was out shopping, she said things even more highly colored.
    Four days later the rumor came back to Mitt when the arms inspectors called on their weekly visit. “Hear what they’re saying?” said one. “They say if Hadd stops the Festival, the sea rises up and spews out monsters over Holand, and all manner of ignorant nonsense.”
    â€œYes,” said the other. “Monsters with heads like horses and horns like bulls. I mean, I know it makes you laugh, Hobin, but you must admit it shows how much happier everyone would be to know there is going to be a Festival this year.”
    Hobin was still laughing after they had gone. “Monsters!” he said. “Don’t let me catch you listening to that sort of nonsense, Mitt.”
    â€œNo fear!” said Mitt. Secretly he was awed by the way the rumor had grown.
    Next day Hadd announced that the Festival would be held as usual. Hadd was no coward, and no fool either. The news Harchad’s spies brought him showed him well enough how much he was hated in Holand. He knew that to cancel the Festival might be the thing that could spark off a real revolution. So he did not cancel it. But he forbade any of his grandsons to take part in the procession. The procession, this year, was to consist of servants and merchants and their sons—all people who did not count.
    The news was a great blow to Ynen. He had looked forward to the Festival for months. He had counted on hitting Hadd with a rattle. He had dreamed of himself whirling the rattle round and round under Hadd’s great pointed beak, closer and closer, and at last, bash . But now… It did not console Ynen in the least that he was allowed to come to the feast afterward. And it was the last straw to learn that his father was to be in the procession. Harl was quite content to stay in the safety of the Palace. Harchad, of course, would be busy supervising the soldiers and spies posted to keep Hadd safe. But someone in Hadd’s family had to carry Libby Beer, and Hadd chose Navis. Navis was his most expendable son. Besides, Hadd did not like Navis much.
    â€œIt’s not fair!” Ynen said to Hildy out of his disappointment. “Why is Father allowed in the procession, and not me?”
    â€œNow you know how I feel,” Hildy said unsympathetically. Girls were never allowed in the procession at all.
    When this news filtered down through devious ways to the Free Holanders, Siriol was rather pleased than otherwise. “Less chance of our Mitt being recognized,” he said.
    The other safety measures were much more disturbing. In the week before the Festival, all boats were ordered to the far side of the harbor. Siriol had to move Flower of Holand to a distant mooring, where she was bumped and rubbed by six other boats crammed in round her. He grumbled furiously. He grumbled even more when, for two days before