Watershed Page 7

  Moving on, pushing past vendors who shouted and harassed – the wood-sellers and wool-spinners, skinners and fishmongers, harvesters and herders, smithies and scrappers – all of them desperate and happy to haggle whether you were interested or not, I stocked up on provisions I could now afford: new leg wrappings, soft hide sewn into long strips with the coarse hair left on for extra warmth; a good length of tightly woven flax rope, always useful; another wide-brimmed pot with its crooked funnel cap, my old one too worn, clouded by ammonia and almost cracked in places; a thicker, heavier cloak; a coarse shirt, loose-sleeved but snug-fitting; a couple of flat discs of bread and two cup weights of cured meat. An old woman grabbed at me, jingling strings of old coins and other useless bits, but I shook her off. Only an idiot had water to waste on decoration.

  Buying a hot stick – the few bits of meat were tough and dry, and not worth the half cup I’d paid – I stood in the shade of an awning and watched some kids kick a rag ball around the square. They weren’t causing any trouble, but a couple of Guards chased them off anyway, spoiling their fun. From a raised platform in the middle of the square, a Tower crier was reading out yet another long list of dos-and-don’ts; no one paid much attention. And in an alley further down, a gaunt man had leapt onto a box and was deploring everyone’s evil ways, threatening godly fury; most passers-by either ignored him or jeered – that god of yours has done enough, you crazy fuck! – but a few stopped to listen.

  They might’ve mastered the art of punishing a man for his actions, but not even the Council had found a way to subdue a person’s innermost thoughts, or his private beliefs. At least, not until those beliefs were made public; then he could be guaranteed an earlier meeting with his maker than he might’ve hoped. But the Godder had chosen his spot well, his added height giving him a clear view up and down the road, and the only Guards in sight were preoccupied with baser things: a group of them had congregated outside one of the whorehouses and were ribbing each other and staring up with longing; above, a couple of girls leaned out of a window, calling and laughing, their long tits swinging in the wind to tease and tempt the poor bastards below. The chance to wield authority was supposed to make amends for a Guard’s single-vat salary, and it was a safe bet none of them could afford what was on offer. Even so, his common sense overcoming any reliance upon a higher power, the Godder kept glancing at them between every rant, ready to run in case they showed any inclination to do their job. It seemed to me there were more and more of these mad zealots slithering out of nowhere but, until such time as Garrick told me otherwise, dealing with them wasn’t my responsibility.

  Across the way, an inker was tattooing a shirtless fool in the full glare of the sun, pricking his upper arm with the pusher, the needle piercing the skin, the black liquid injected with a quick thumb press. The customer would regret it tomorrow; what the sun didn’t burn, the needle and the putrid ink – maybe squid but more likely, because it was cheaper, charcoal and seawater – would surely infect.

  Always ready for a bit of fun, I tossed the remains of my stick into a dumper’s cart and wandered over.

  The inker looked up hopefully. ‘You interested?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe,’ I lied. Even if I’d been idiotic enough to risk sun and filth, they’d be nothing compared to Garrick’s wrath; the only marks allowed a Watchman were his. ‘What can you do?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Anything you want. Pictures. Words. You decide.’

  I stared at the mess he was making on the man’s arm. ‘What’s he getting?’

  ‘My name,’ the fool answered for himself, wincing when the inker stuck him again.

  I peered closer. The tiny black dots weren’t spelling out any word I knew. ‘Yeah? What’s that then?’

  ‘Digger,’ he said. He even sounded proud of it.

  I chuckled; the inker’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you say so,’ I told the duped customer.

  ‘What d’you mean? That’s what it says, right?’ the man demanded. Whirling to face us, suddenly suspicious, he twisted and pulled at his arm to see what was there. Not that it’d do him any good; he clearly couldn’t read.

  ‘Sure,’ I placated, with a nod and a wide smile. ‘That’s what it says.’ And laughing, I left the two of them to argue it out.

  Most vendors sold in the squares, but there were plenty of other trades tucked into laneways and dark passages, all of them ready to scramble at the approach of any Guards: thieves and pickpockets waiting to relieve the unwary, nests of gamblers easily talked into splashing out for a kiss of luck, cons and tricksters relying on the stupidity of others, fight-dens visited by those who hadn’t yet had their fill of death, whore-masters touting thrills never found in any of the lawful houses; all of them doing their bit to keep the water circulating.

  Pushing through the crowd on one of the busier streets, I browsed the weapon stalls (some legitimate, some not) more out of interest than looking to buy. I’d get what I needed from Taggart, purpose-made and better value. But it was always worthwhile to see what was on offer, and to see who frequented those stalls. Mostly it was Guards, swaggering around, pretending they knew what each weapon was for, how best to use it, how much it was worth. But others bought too, and they were the ones to watch, just in case.

  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 t
o 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 cou
ld 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.