Watershed (9 page)

Finally something caught my eye and I pulled it from the wooden tub to weigh it in my hand. Almost as tall as I was, it looked just like any other staff but it was thick, almost a full handhold, and too light to be solid. Upending it, I heard the rattle; it took less than a minute to work it out, and I unscrewed the base to pull out what might've been another staff. Except it wasn't. Maybe a third shorter, flatter, and tapered and notched at either end, it was wrapped in some kind of waxed skin and had a central grip bound tight to the shaft. I flexed it to assess the give, and felt a prick of excitement.

‘The young master has a good eye,' said the vendor, his voice whiny with hope.

I shook my head, ready to bargain. ‘Where's the string?'

‘You pay extra for that, young master.'

Of course you did. I could make my own, but there wasn't time. Taggart might have some ready, but I didn't want to take the risk.

I bent the bow again, feeling for any weaknesses, any cracks hidden beneath its wrapping. ‘Arrows?'

‘Three cups for six,' he said. ‘That's what the tube will carry.'

‘No.' I could get arrows from Taggart for half that. ‘How much for just the bow and the string?'

The vendor looked around; two Guards were pulling knives off a rack and testing their sharpness against thick thumbs. Knowing they weren't there to buy, he gave me his full attention.

‘A quarter vat. Worth every drop.'

I slid the bow back into its tube. ‘Too much. Five cups. That's all I've got.'

A meaty hand clamped my shoulder, and the vendor ducked his head and stepped back.

‘Now why's a boy like you wanting to waste so much water on a stick?'

Quickly screwing the base back onto the staff, I turned to face the Guard. He was about my height, but thicker with his over-padded uniform. His face shone with sweat and his eyes were beady. He still held one of the knives he'd been testing, gripping it tightly and, not for the first time, I wondered where they found these fools.

‘Not planning to do anything stupid with that, are you?' he jeered.

I shook my head. ‘No, course not. I'm heading out tomorrow, southwest. Thought a staff might come in handy.'

‘What, two legs not enough for you? Or maybe you're scared you'll trip and roll the rest of the way.' He guffawed, pleased with his wit, and the other Guard smiled, backing him up. ‘Five cups is a lot to pay for a stick, boy. Why don't you pick another one?'

Reaching across, he plucked a hefty staff from the tub, the top half worn smooth by many hands, the foot shod with metal. As sticks went, it looked a good one. But it didn't house a bow.

‘Here, this is more what you need.' He turned to the vendor. ‘How much for this?'

The vendor was clearly disappointed, but a sale was a sale. ‘Two cups, sir.'

The Guard scored a sir, while I got young master. It rankled.

‘Thanks, but I prefer this one,' I said, keeping my voice low but pleasant, hiding my growing irritation at being called a boy by a Guard no older than me.

‘You deaf, boy? I said this is what you want.'

He raised the knife a little, trying to intimidate. And if I'd been what he thought I was I would have done as he'd said, because people didn't pick a fight with the Guard unless they had nothing to lose. Like Disses.

Looking at the knife, I said, ‘You paid for that?'

‘Cheeky shit, aren't you? I never pay for a knife before I've tried it out, boy.'

He brandished it again, waving it in front of my face. Already we were drawing a crowd and I hoped the bow was worth the effort. Letting my cloak gape, I fingered the ties of my shirt, loosening the top few.

‘I think you'll find paper does a better job,' I told him. ‘Why scrape when you can wipe?'

His partner laughed, but the Guard reddened. ‘You little shit!' he snarled, stepping forwards.

Tugging at my shirt, I revealed the first rows of marks. ‘You really don't wanna do that,' I said, daring him to overstep the boundary and take me on. Because we both knew how it would end. I belonged to the Tower and messing with me was as good as telling the Council to bend over.

‘Aw, shit! Leave him, Brandon. He's Watch,' said the other Guard, hauling on Brandon's arm and forcing the knife down.

‘Fuck,' said Brandon, scowling at me. ‘You think those mean anything? You think those make you better than me?'

It was stupid really, two idiots fighting over who was the bigger one, and on the eve of an assignment I should've known better. Whispers had broken out in the crowd, buzzing loud as flies and hinting at fear.

‘Better than you?' I asked, and grinned. ‘Yeah, I reckon so.'

His knuckles whitened on the knife hilt and I knew he longed to make his own mark, deeper than any of Garrick's. But his partner muttered again, and with a quick nod to me pulled Brandon away. They took the unpaid-for knife with them, but the vendor didn't dare protest.

Turning my back on the crowd, I pulled my cloak around me, adjusting the hood to hide my face even more, and glanced at the vendor, who'd shrunk against the canvas wall. He looked more scared than anyone.

‘The string,' I said. Impatient now, I retrieved the rod from its casing.

He ferreted in a box, pulled out a dried, stretched coil of gut and handed it across. Tying a couple of quick slipknots, I hooked them over each end of the bow, arcing it nicely. Then, hoisting it, drawing back the string, I aimed straight at the vendor. No arrow but he still cowered, and I smiled. He'd been warned.

‘Throw in a spare and you'll get your quarter,' I said.

He dug out another string and tossed it at me, wanting me gone. ‘No payment necessary. The bow is yours.'

I measured out the water anyway, tipping it into the jug on the bench; he watched, wide-eyed, but didn't thank me. And though he didn't ask, I could've told him why: Watchmen weren't Guard, and one way or another we always paid our dues.

Before packing, I paid a visit to Taggart. We all had our own way of getting the job done. Some opted for guns, though they were old and too few now, with ammo hard to come by and expensive. Others chose garrottes or swords, axes, bows, clubs or knives – whatever worked really. I carried two blades myself, for throwing as much as stabbing or cutting. I didn't like getting too close to a target. Too many things could go wrong, and a wounded Watchman was, more often than not, a dead one.

‘Jem,' Taggart greeted me, his voice as gravelled and grey as the rest of him.

‘Hey, old man.' I was the only one allowed to call him that, though he'd never explained why he tolerated it, and I hadn't asked; I couldn't even remember how it'd started, or when. Someone had once overheard me and tried it out for himself. He'd limped for weeks afterwards.

Taggart might've been grizzled and grumpy as shit, and long past active duty, but there wasn't much he didn't know about ways to kill a man. When the new recruits sauntered in, he'd watch, deadpan, while they demanded this revolver or that knife, and then he'd tell them the cost and they'd backtrack and rethink their options. The smarter ones knew to ask him for advice. We were responsible for our own weapons. We paid for every one, each blade and every arrow, and we nurtured them, kept them clean and oiled, sharp and at the ready. They were the difference between returning from an assignment and not.

When I joined the Watch, I'd been as foolish as the rest. I had a good eye and a steady hand, and I'd opted for a crossbow, saving my allowance and going without for weeks to pay for it. But even before my first assignment, I knew I'd made a mistake: it was too big and therefore too noticeable. The actual killing of Disses was only a small part of our work, our compensation, if you like, right at the end. The bulk was taken up by infiltration, living with the enemy, getting to know the lay of the land and gathering information. And I could hardly do that with a fucking great crossbow strapped to my back. So I'd gone to Taggart for help and between the two of us we designed my weapon of choice, easily dismantled and unrecognisable unless you knew what you were looking at. Strapped to each forearm, the mini bows were spring-loaded, the darts released with a simple thumb trigger. Their range was limited, less than eight metres, but it was more than enough, and they were very accurate and quieter than any gun. Taggart had been pleased to finally find a recruit interested in weaponry; I was just happy to still be alive.

Handing over the new staff, I watched while he discovered the tube, unscrewed the base and pulled out the bow. He ran his hands over it much the same way as I'd done, checking for weaknesses, before he gave me what might've passed for a smile.

‘Clever,' he said, passing it back to me.

‘Yeah, that's what I thought. But I need arrows. What've you got?'

He disappeared for a minute and came back with a handful, all of them different.

‘If you wanna keep it disguised your problem's gunna be fittin' enough arrows in that tube. They'll need narrow fletches.'

‘Yeah.' Difficulty was, the smaller the fletch, the less accurate the flight. Didn't matter so much on a dart, over a short distance, but with an arrow I'd have to make a lot of allowances.

He selected one and handed it over. ‘Try this.'

I hooked up the string, more securely this time, and moved over to his target range. Again, the bow felt good, stretching back in a smooth curve, and the soft hum of the string sounded true on release. But the arrow only nicked the target before clattering into the wall behind, and I cursed.

Taggart shrugged and passed me another. ‘This is heavier, so give it extra pull. And aim a little high.'

I did as he suggested, and this time struck home with a soft thud. But I wasn't satisfied. Retrieving the arrow, I moved to the back wall. Again, I found the target and smiled, relieved. ‘It's sound. Plenty of give, but no shake on release.'

‘Won't do you no good if you're in a hurry,' said Taggart. ‘But a single sniper shot, maybe two, long range, and it'll have paid for itself.' He didn't ask the cost and I didn't tell him. There was no point nitpicking the true worth of a good weapon.

The vendor had said six arrows, but I only dropped five into the tube, stuffing a wad of cloth in after them to keep them from rattling. Five was plenty. Cheaper too.

‘Those darts ready?' I asked Taggart and he nodded, pulling out a wrapped bundle, opening the folds to reveal its contents. Needles really, about a handspan long, not too weighty but thick as a nail. And a nail through an eye socket, or into an artery, could do the job as well as any bullet. I picked up a few, examining them, looking for any faults. But there were none. This was Taggart and I could depend on him to see me right.

‘Fifty?'

‘Yep,' he said. ‘Hear you're headin' to the Hills.'

I looked at him sharply. A Watchman's assignment was generally classified, between him and Garrick. Taggart shouldn't have known where I was going. Not this soon anyway.

‘Maybe. Maybe not,' I said.

He smiled, not fooled. ‘You sure fifty's gunna be enough?'

Remembering all the inconsistencies in the report, I hoped fifty would be enough. Any more and I'd be in real trouble, even with the new bow. Even with Garrick for company. Not replying, I passed Taggart the water: another quarter vat, plus two cups for the arrows. It was frightening how quickly it went.

He pulled out another package, and gave it to me. Opening it up, I stared at the sharpened sticks. ‘Wood?'

‘Keep 'em oiled and they won't splinter. But they'll be lighter than the others, so take that into account.' Gripping my wrist, he eyeballed me. ‘Just in case.'

Rewrapping the bundle, I passed it back. ‘Can't afford 'em.'

That much was true. After a night in the whorehouse and my stint in the market, I had just enough left to take with me. Besides, it wasn't like Taggart to give a shit, and his sudden interest in my assignment, and my wellbeing, was beginning to spook.

‘A present,' he insisted. ‘On the house.'

I didn't waste time thinking it over. ‘Right. Take care, old man.'

He straightened and nodded curtly. ‘You too, Jem.' But I wasn't halfway to the door when he called out, ‘And trust no one.'

Excerpt ~ Letter #17

 

What makes one man a hero and another a villain? Perspective.

The shortwave signal had been acknowledged and another returned: they had four days to get to the pass. Burns wasted no time; they'd have to move quick if they were gunna make it, he told them, though he offered no explanation for the urgency. But Sarah didn't care; she'd run if she had to.

The first two days passed without incident. She noticed the men never changed their positions: Burns took the lead and two followed, behind and each to a side, forming a triangle; then came the group, flanked by two others and, protecting the rear, the last two scouts. Even when the terrain began to change, the hills steeper and rockier, the thickets of dead trees more dense and the ground more hazardous, they kept in formation, their heads swivelling side to side, on the lookout for any movement. But apart from birds wheeling overhead – Sarah soon grew to loathe the mournful cries of gulls – there was nothing to be seen.

They walked day and night, stopping for a couple of hours at midday to eat, drink, and distil any urine (she noticed the men shared a couple of strange little domed pots), and once more at night, longer so the group could snatch some sleep, before pressing on again. Unlike old Whitey, none of the men showed any interest in the children or, indeed, in the group. No questions were asked of them, and no answers were given. They kept to a narrow line at the cliff edge; further west was too rugged, Burns said, the old road too dangerous. Ahead loomed the mountains, rearing black to meet the brown sky, and the wind rolled down the foothills like boiled water, forcing them back so that every step was an effort. To the east yawned the deep chasm of the inlet, churning with its hungry sea,
but on its other side, Sarah hoped, lay safety: a Citadel that teased her imaginings with promises of grandeur, convenience and security. If they had goats, and shortwave radios, what else might they have? Water, definitely. Fuel? Electricity perhaps? It was hard to know, because every time they tried to find out more, Burns and the others would smile vaguely and say they'd find out soon enough. Yes, she would, Sarah told herself, fiercely. She'd not be cheated now.

They shuffled to a halt; ahead, Burns had stopped. Raising one hand, he twisted it to signal something – Sarah had no idea what – before crouching; the men behind him did the same; the rest stayed upright, the ones flanking the group moving closer in and herding them. Sarah sidled behind Daniel, sandwiching Jeremiah. He was asleep in his sling, arms and legs dangling, his head to one side. Briefly, she stroked his dark hair.

Another flourish of Burns's hand: fingers and thumb pressed together a few times, as though mimicking talking; then all five digits upright, spread wide, before closing into a fist; finally, two fingers raised.

Filthy fuckin' eaters, one of the men muttered. Five of 'em, twenty metres up. Sarah shivered, but the man grinned. Easy pickings, he said. They were upwind, and real busy. She shivered again, realising why. What should we do? Daniel whispered. Nothin', the man replied. Burns will handle it.

And he did. A quick nod to his right, and the man behind dropped to his elbows and knees, rifle out front, slithering towards the very lip of the cliff and forwards, moving more quickly over the rough ground than Sarah had thought possible. Burns and the third man waited for a few minutes before doing the same, straight towards the eaters. Two shots in quick succession, and then a third, even as Burns and the third man rose and ran forwards, swords drawn. Yells and howls, guttural sounds that raised the skin on her neck, a scream cut short. Then a long silence.

Stay put, their guards told them, and left to join Burns. The other two behind moved up to take their places, everything unspoken and synchronised; a unit of men, singular of mind and purpose. Sarah could hear muttering ahead, grunting and cursing, thought she could see movement off to the right. Yes, she thought. Better the sea swallow the dead than anything else.

Finally given the go ahead, they trudged on, passing the site in silence. The ground was darker than it should've been, sand churned with blood, but everything else had been cleared. The only sign of the scouts' vengeance were the five crudely severed heads placed in a neat row along the top of a large rock; sawn-off hands had been crammed wrist-first into each open mouth, dirty dead fingers curling over chins, as though past meals were trying to prise their way out.

Trees thinned out then thickened again; they wove a path up, always up, over the gnarled toes of the mountains, and as they climbed the night air grew more chill. Sarah felt pressed, by the scouts who prodded them on and on, by the wind that pushed and tore, by the spiny bones of the earth – those rising crags of rock and sand to their left – and by the abyss to their right.

Any ambition that she might run to the pass had long since evaporated; it was enough that she was able to stand, to keep her feet moving, to keep Jeremiah quiet and reassure Daniel with a wan smile (which he couldn't see through the rag over her face), that she was all right, still capable and still determined. Four days, she told herself. Then three, then two, then one. It'd soon be over. Soon over. Soon.

You still got a way to go.

Burns stopped just inside the last line of trees, and crouched again; this time the entire group was made to do the same. Ahead lay a wide clearing, its diameter a couple of hundred metres though it was hard to judge from their position on the ground, and the
earth was blackened, trees torched to stumpy, sooty stalagmites. Halfway across, dividing the clearing, ran the remains of an old raised road, its edges crumbling, defined only by a twisted guard rail, and Sarah squinted to better see where it led: through more stumps, not burned but cut smooth, with the cliff shearing away to the right. On the far side it appeared to do the same, the road running a straight path between, continuing out across a narrowed gorge and disappearing behind some kind of blockade into the shelter of a rounded tunnel. A bridge.

The pass, Burns told them. But first they had to run the gauntlet. He seemed briefly amused by his own words. The area had been deliberately cleared, he said, but no cover meant no cover. For anyone.

Sarah stared at the bridge, and the stone tunnel. There was some kind of turret at the lip of it, above the barricaded entrance, offering a bird's-eye view of the road and any who approached the pass. Was it manned? she wondered, and prayed it was. But that was all she could pray for. Trying not to think about what lay beyond that tunnel, she forced herself to focus only on what lay before it.

It seemed quiet enough, Daniel commented, and it did; apart from the wind the clearing was eerily peaceful, like a graveyard, but Burns stared him down. Don't be fooled, he said. They were out there all right. Every one of 'em waitin' for a chance to get through that pass. Then he turned to one of the other men: Signal in. Give 'em our position.

Shouldn't we wait until dark? Daniel asked. Burns shook his head. No, he said, they'd need the light. That made sense, Sarah thought, eyeing all the stumps, the drifts of sand and, further ahead, at the start of the pass, low crumpled mounds that could only be bodies; if they had to run for it, better that they could see where they were going.

The return message was as swift as it was confusing: godders, nine and twelve; they'd shield the north side on approach. The men exchanged looks. Crescent or cross, Burns wondered aloud,
then grunted when the other man shrugged. A minute's silence, before Burns turned to the group and said: Right, fast and straight to the pass. His scouts would flank north and rear. Eyeing them all carefully, he added: Keep it tight. No matter what happens, don't scatter. And no one stops. Not us, not you. Anyone falls, you leave 'em. That clear?

It wasn't. After everything they'd suffered, Sarah couldn't imagine abandoning any of the group. For any reason. But they all nodded mutely, accepting the order. Sarah helped secure Jeremiah more tightly to Daniel's chest, binding arms and legs, papoosing him; despite the heat, he didn't protest. When she was finished Daniel gripped her hands with his, squeezing them tight, telling her they'd make it, and she forced a smile, accepting his faith. Rachel refused Cutler's offer to carry Ethan; the man might be stronger and faster, but he'd also make a more obvious target. The rest did as instructed; still crouched, every movement measured and quiet, they shed whatever they dared to lighten their loads.

On three, Burns muttered, and they gathered themselves for the final push; a deep breath, running low from behind the trees, Sarah stumbling before finding her feet, Daniel grabbing her arm, pulling her along, not slowing his pace to hers but urging her to keep up. She heard nothing but her own breath, the race of her heart, the beat of boots on sand as they dodged one stump, and another, trusting to the ground and her eyes, to the strength of Daniel's hand, around a third stump, over the fourth, before the first shout sounded:
Godders!
And again:
'Ware, behind!
And Burns's deep cry:
Move! Faster!

She didn't look back. There was no need, because what ranged ahead was frightening enough: from twelve o'clock, just as the message had said, poured a wave of bodies, spilling east in a storm of noise towards the pass. The turret was manned after all – she heard shots fired, warning but falling short.

Don't stop!
Burns screamed, giving the group no time to doubt or hesitate. Sarah skirted another stump, cleared a rock, kept her
gaze on the pass, on the sudden movement ahead: a stream of men surging out through the barricade – no, it was some sort of gate, she realised, bristling with wooden stakes and festooned with wire. And her heart surged too. Surely they'd come halfway? Another fifty metres, forty-nine, forty-eight – she counted strides instead of stumps – thirty, twenty-nine. Jeremiah bounced and bawled against Daniel's chest, sounding a melody to the beat of Burns's bellows and the steady rhythm of the gunshots ahead,
rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat
. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen – she reached the bank of the road topped with its line of men holding the pass against the horde, machine-gunning the first of the godders, spraying them with bullets as though with water. Five, four – a lone figure standing tall and straight in the very centre of the road, a sword in each hand, waiting calmly for the mob that chased them; Sarah saw the smile on his young face (a beautiful face, she thought bizarrely) and felt a sudden terror for him – what could one man possibly do? – before she was past and the man was gone, and she was still running to reach the road where it rose to meet the level of the bridge.
Up, up, up!
Burns yelled, and they scrambled on hands and feet, slipping on the loose earth of the bank, grabbing at the rail. One of the scouts helped Rachel, pushing or pulling her it was hard to tell. Banjo was first over, and the first to fall, Daniel leaping over him to avoid being pulled down too. Had Banjo tripped? No, there was blood. Sarah screamed, Cutler slowed to help; the scouts shoved him on.
Don't stop!

Burns and the rest prodded and herded them out onto the bridge –
Keep to the middle!
Sarah could see why: the rails on either side had been knocked away and the wind howled up through the gorge, scouring the road, trying to push them to the edge and into the sea below. Their run slowed to a totter; bent and cowering, they clung together and moved as one, towards the mouth of the tunnel and the huge spiked gate that stood ajar; a man was framed in the opening, shouting and beckoning while above, safe in his eyrie, the sniper took down whatever followed. And then they
were through, out of the wind and into sudden darkness that blinded. Shoved across to the side, out of the way, Sarah felt the hardness of stone, leaned into the cool of it with shaking arms and on legs that trembled; every breath was a struggle as she sobbed her relief and her fear. Her guilt too, when she remembered poor Banjo. Daniel hugged her, one-armed; with his other hand, he pulled at Jeremiah's wrappings so he might let loose his wail.