Watershed (26 page)

Because I was Jeremiah and she made me strong.

Excerpt ~ Letter #10

 

I suppose the oddest thing is that we've become so dependent on that which terrifies us the most.

It was Sarah's favourite time of the day. Daniel was home, Jeremiah too, and the three sat together around the little table. The setting sun had cast the ragged cloth – the fifth piece Daniel had nailed across the hole in the wall – a red so deep and rich the room looked as warm as it felt, as though lit by flames. They'd eaten and were still hungry, but none of them complained. Daniel had made a rough chessboard, and was teaching Jeremiah how to play; as always, the boy was quick to learn. It's all about strategy, Daniel told him, then grumbled when he lost another piece.

Whippin' your
arse!
Jeremiah mocked his grandfather. His voice had already broken, and his laugh was deep.

Don't swear, Sarah reminded, the reprimand automatic but not scolding, because it wasn't such a sin compared to others and she didn't want to annoy him. Their evenings together had become a rare treat, Jeremiah preferring the company of younger people, boys as well as girls. Sarah never asked and Jeremiah didn't tell, but she knew. Sometimes, when he returned from wherever he'd been, she could smell them on him. Daniel had talked to him about girls, instructing him in first-world behaviour, teaching him what no longer seemed to matter. It was his job, not Sarah's, and she hoped Jeremiah had listened. But she had no need to speak of such things; she could write them instead, as she was doing now, filling every part of the grey page with small lettering, though not as neatly as she would have liked – the paper was rough, the ink never easy to use, and the light low. Another letter. Sometimes they took her only a few days to write, other times she'd spend weeks on them, as she was with this one, choosing every word with care. More words
for her boy. Sarah knew he liked them, and she found pleasure in the writing.

Daniel set the board again and Jeremiah leaned back in his chair. His hair – Sarah longed to cut it – was matted and tangled and bound back off his face. It was a handsome face, she thought with a grandmother's prejudice. Changed from boyhood, though still not fully defined, it had become less like his mother's and, in the right light, his eyes would sometimes glint with flecks of gold, becoming soft and warm. It was hard to believe he was only fourteen or so, that he was no longer a boy. Most days he worked with Daniel's crew, though he hadn't completely surrendered his job at the school. What little water he earned teaching they let him spend on himself, and already he had a second, smaller knife. Sarah wished he'd bought a new shirt instead, but had managed to hold her tongue.

Mitch left yesterday for the catchers, Jeremiah said suddenly. There was a long pause, and Sarah and Daniel waited for the announcement they'd dreaded: I'm thinking of signing up.

Sarah stopped writing, and Daniel's hand hovered mid-air before placing the piece he held onto the board. Hard work, was all he said, before coughing, dry and rasping – he seemed to be coughing more lately – but Jeremiah wasn't daunted. It was good pay, he insisted. Two vats a week. Nothing else paid that well.

If he lasted long enough to collect it, Sarah thought. They'd all heard the stories: the full crews who set out, and the half who never returned. Fetching water fetched a high price. But it didn't deter the young men, most of them boys, from signing on – too easily persuaded by wily recruiters who wandered the streets promising adventure and hawking death.

He didn't like the sea, she reminded him.

Jeremiah shrugged. He'd get used to it. How bad could it be? Then, seeing her distress, he muttered that it'd been just an idea,
nothing definite. There was another pause. Or maybe he'd join one of the salvage crews.

But that was no better, and Sarah saw Daniel's quick frown. They'd talk later. Sighing, pushing away from the table, Jeremiah rose and came around behind Sarah, bending a little to read the letter she was trying to finish, one arm circling to hug her. Clearly intended to distract, she relished it anyway.

What was she writing this time? he asked.

A story, she replied. An old myth, about a girl who'd agreed to be sacrificed just so an army of men could sail off to war. Did Daniel remember? she asked, looking across the table. About Iphigenia and the Trojan War? He shook his head, and coughed again; no – he gave her a warm smile – she'd always been the one for the old stories.

Looking up at Jeremiah, Sarah patted the hand that pressed her shoulder. You'll like this one, she told him. He leaned down and she breathed in his sweat and his dirt, the dust that coated him as it coated all of them. Breathed it in and closed her eyes, holding his smell like a memory.

Don't worry, Gam, she heard him whisper. Whatever I do, you'll be the first to know.

And that was the best she could hope for.

A woman's scent is mysterious. Sometimes fresh, sometimes stale, other times warm and soft and natural, comforting with a kind of milkiness that stirs childhood memories. But the smell of a woman who's been fucked is unmistakeable: fermented cream, sweet and sharp and salty and sour. A smell you can taste and touch, that keeps you wanting more. My room reeked like a whorehouse; reeked of the two of us. Three times Alex had made to leave and three times I'd pulled her back, not ready to let her go, and still unsatisfied. Then, when I was spent at last, she'd slipped away.

Tate had fetched me soon after, giving me no time to get clean, and the memory of her still coated me; my body, my hair, my lips, my tongue. I wondered if the other men in the room could smell her too, smell her redolent sex that I wore like a second skin, that seemed to fill the air, thickening it with each passing minute. But if Ballard caught even a whiff of his sister, he gave no sign. Then again, he didn't fuck women.

Clutching his little wooden pointer, he tapped it incessantly against the maps and charts that papered the wall, making me long to grab it out of his hand and break it over his head.
Tap, tap, tap
, and his droning voice, unrelenting and irritating as hell. My dick
and balls were tender, my mind fuzzed and craving sleep, and all I wanted to do was rest my head and tell Ballard to shove his grand plan up his arse.

We'd been there for hours, the ten of us, seated around a large table strewn with reports and, of course, more maps. His war council, Ballard had called us, his voice tinged with pride. Every now and then he'd get up and do some more tapping and the other men would take note and nod diligently, murmuring their agreement. Occasionally a question was asked, and Ballard would answer it, long-winded and wasting words, or have Tate read from one of the reports for the benefit of those who couldn't. But mostly it was just him talking and me wishing he'd shut the fuck up.

He talked names and numbers, areas and routes, arms and ammunition, schedules, sabotage and diversions, most of which meant nothing to me and none of which would count for shit unless I managed to do the one thing I'd been brought in to do: survive Garrick long enough to kill him. But in the time we'd been there, Ballard hadn't even mentioned my role and I'd lost interest.

The other men hadn't exactly greeted my presence with joy. Ballard had introduced me, and after some long, untrusting glares, I was pretty much ignored. I'd already forgotten half their names. Tate sat beside Ballard, and between us was the man Fletcher had mentioned, Amon, bearded and grey and stiffly upright. Like Ballard and Tate, the braids fastening his cloak were green: a Hills Guard. Across the table, on the other side of Ballard, was Micah, about my age and with a mean look, mostly directed at me. Next to him was an older man whose name I couldn't remember, and then Grady, black-skinned and dressed simply, with the dirty, wide-knuckled hands of a farmer. The only other one I could recall was Quinn, memorable not just because he wore the blue insignia of the Port, but because he was shiny bald and as round as Ballard was square.

‘In a week, the Catchers will return from the Sea,' Ballard was saying. ‘We'll only have a few hours before the other two are
sent out. Quinn, make sure everyone is in place, ready for Amon's signal. It's important you –'

Thwack!
The pointer came down hard on the table and everyone jumped. I glared at the stick, pissed that the bloody thing still hadn't broken.

‘Are we boring you, Jem?'

‘Yeah. Kinda.' It was the first time I'd spoken all morning and my voice sounded as tired as I felt.

Heads swivelled and a low rumble rolled across the table. Ballard's men respected him, and my rudeness didn't sit well. I yawned again, testing them; the rumble grew louder.

‘Why's he even here?' demanded Micah. It was a good question, probably the best I'd heard all morning.

‘He's here because we need him.' But Ballard didn't seem too happy about the idea any more.

‘There's no reason for him to be hearing this,' Micah complained. ‘All he has to do is open a few gates. And maybe we don't even need him for that.'

‘You want to do it, go right ahead,' I said. ‘And while you're at it you can take care of Garrick too.'

‘Garrick's dead, you idiot,' Micah sneered.

‘You know that for a fact, do you?'

‘Enough!' Ballard cut in, pressing his hands to the table, looming over it. But he still kept hold of the stick. ‘Unfortunately, Jem is right. Garrick lives. And Anders is dead.'

From the gasps of dismay and the mutterings that followed, I guessed this wasn't good news, though not just for them. I knew Garrick would've survived whatever they'd planned for him, but to have it confirmed was deeply disappointing.

‘How long have you known?' Quinn piped up from the end of the table.

‘Over a week,' Ballard admitted.

‘And you've waited until now to tell us?' asked Amon.

‘We had other things to deal with,' Ballard replied, levelling a look at me. ‘Just as important.'

‘Without the north, we can't –'

‘Everything continues as planned. Nothing's changed. Anders' son has assumed command, and the men Garrick took out have been replaced.'

‘The son is not the father,' observed Quinn.

‘How many did we lose?' Amon asked. ‘How did it happen?'

Ballard wiped a hand over tired eyes. ‘Seven. Somehow, Garrick knew. He was ready for them.' Then his voice hardened. ‘We were prepared for losses. We knew the risk. And Tyler knows the plan, better than anyone else. Him taking over makes sense.'

‘The risk was only worth taking if Garrick was killed.'

But Ballard wasn't prepared to admit any mistakes. ‘No one wishes more than me that we'd succeeded,' he said, bitterly. ‘But everything we do is a risk. Killing Garrick ourselves was always a long shot, but we took it hoping it'd lessen the risk, not do away with it completely.'

There was a brief silence while everyone considered Ballard's words, then Quinn nodded. ‘Maybe this is for the best. If Garrick's returned to the Citadel it means he believes the threat is over.'

‘Right,' said Ballard. ‘So everything continues as planned, the Council's no wiser, and no one in this room is at any greater risk than before. Are we agreed?'

No one?
Excuse me
? Except he was right, because I'd always known I'd have to deal with Garrick myself. Nothing had changed in that respect.

‘So now we have to rely on this Watchman.' Micah spat his disgust.

‘It was always a possibility,' Ballard replied. ‘You asked why he was here. This is why.' Then, to me, he said, ‘Jem, stand up.'

All eyes narrowed with distrust when I rose. Another silence, this time uncomfortable, and not just for them.

‘Remove your shirt,' Ballard ordered, adding, when I frowned, ‘Do it, Jem. Now.'

I undid the ties and, pulling the shirt over my head, breathed deeply of Alex. More mutterings as the men took in the marks, but I ignored them, staring at the wall opposite – my head, if not high, at least level.

‘Turn around,' Ballard said, and when I did the mutterings died away. I couldn't see their faces, but I knew what they were looking at. The scars. Raised welts, pale and puckered and long-healed, criss-crossing my shoulders and back, disappearing into the belt of my trousers. I'd never seen what they saw, but I'd felt them, every one of them. Still felt them, though the pain was forgotten.

‘This is a man who knows the cruelty of the Tower,' Ballard said. ‘This is a man who understands Garrick better than any of us, who knows what we face and what he has to deal with. This is the only man who has any chance of defeating him. We can't excuse the marks on his chest. But these scars are their cause. That's why he was chosen. Whips, chains, rope, wire, razors, brands. Fear. That's what it takes to break a man.'

Darts shot into shoulders and rocks smashed against heads did a real good job too, but I said nothing. And Micah was far from convinced.

‘It's one thing to agree to help us, it's another to actually do it. How do we know he won't fold when the time comes? Or betray us.'

‘You don't,' I said, turning to face him. ‘But I'm the best chance you've got of getting rid of Garrick and gaining access to the Tower.'

‘And we're supposed to believe you've suddenly seen the light? That you're doing this because you've had a miraculous change of heart?' Micah half rose from his chair.

‘My reasons are none of your fucking business,' I told him. ‘And until a few hours ago I didn't know you from shit. So one thing you can be sure of, I ain't doing it for you.'

‘Stop it!' Ballard interjected before Micah could retaliate. I pulled my shirt back on, and Micah sulked while the rest glanced at each other.

‘So be it.' Amon was the first to speak. ‘It seems we have little choice.'

‘Agreed,' said Quinn, and Grady and the others nodded. Only Micah had voiced his dissent, but he'd been outvoted.

‘Good,' Ballard said, his face smoothing with relief. But he looked suddenly weary. ‘We've gone over time. Amon, Quinn, Thatcher, you'd better get back to the settlement. We'll meet again tomorrow. That'll be our last opportunity before Tate and I depart for the Citadel. Alex will be returning with us.'

Well, at least now I knew the schedule.

We all stood to go, and I was looking forward to getting some sleep, until Ballard snatched it from me again. ‘Not you, Jem.'

Micah cast an evil glance my way before pushing past the others, while the rest took their time, stopping to murmur to Ballard or Tate. I slouched, irritable, longing for my bed and thinking on what he'd said. So Alex was returning to the Citadel too. The man who'd replaced him for a night would deliver her safely back to her husband.
There's irony for you, Ballard
.

‘So, it's done,' Ballard sighed when they'd all left.

‘You lied to me,' I said, keen to speed things along.

He shook his head. ‘Not so much a lie as a precaution. You needed to make your own decision and you couldn't have done that knowing it rested on the decision of others. I don't own these men, Jem. But after what happened to Anders, it was the only way. And we do need you. More than you know.'

‘And if they'd followed Micah? If they'd voted not to take a chance?'

‘But they didn't. Your question is irrelevant.'

So was his reply, because I suspected that had the vote gone against him, Ballard would've proceeded with his own plan regardless.

‘Reckon Micah's probably got a bit more to say about it, though,' I said.

‘Probably, but right now we have other things to discuss. Tate?'

Tate took out a small pouch and passed it to me. Briefly I juggled its weight before opening it and tipping the contents onto the table. Tags, still bearing the stains of blood and threads of withered tissue. I picked one up and studied it, listening as Ballard explained.

‘As you know, one of the more pleasant duties assigned to Guards is removing the tags of the deceased so they can be sent on to the Tower and the records amended. A few years ago we began keeping a number aside so you'd have something to show for your time here.'

A few years ago? I dropped the tag and stared at Ballard.

‘I told you, we've been planning this for a long time,' he told me.

‘How many?' I asked, too tired to bother counting.

His smile was grim. ‘That magic number, Jem. Twenty-three.' I didn't react as he might've hoped; I was too busy thinking of Garrick's knife scoring me for twenty-three kills I'd never actually made. But Ballard hadn't finished. ‘Remember, it's all about redemption. And, of course, you must return from this assignment as you would from any other. You have to present these tags so Garrick believes you've been successful.' There was a pause, another sigh, before he asked, ‘Tell me, what will he do when you don't bring him a girl?'

I scooped up the tags and dropped them back into the pouch before pulling the string tight. Then I sat back and stared at him straight. ‘Flog me.' And that was the least I could expect. But just as Ballard had known his risk, I'd known mine.

He nodded. ‘And that will incapacitate you for how long?'

‘Dunno,' I shrugged. ‘A week, ten days. Maybe more.' It would depend on his method, and his mood.

Ballard bowed his head and sighed. ‘We can't afford that time.'

‘Yeah? Well this is one occasion when you don't get to choose.'

He began his pacing again. ‘You mentioned Micah, his hostility? There's a reason for it. He lost his sister three years ago. To the Watchman who came here hunting Dissidents.'

Goaded by his tone, I swallowed my joke about Micah's carelessness. ‘Why don't you just say what you mean, Ballard? Only I didn't kill any women that time. Just four men.' As he knew.

‘I didn't say you killed her,' Ballard replied. ‘Not directly, anyway.'

I froze, trying to recall a face. ‘I don't –'

‘You don't what, Jem? You don't remember?' He paused, maybe waiting for me to offer some ready excuse; but I had none, and he continued. ‘Micah doesn't know it was you, and we won't tell him. That would undermine our purpose. Nor does he know her real fate. But you do, don't you?'

Finally he got his reaction. ‘Shut up.'

‘Is she still alive?' Tate asked, and I squeezed my eyes tight.

‘I don't know.' But it was doubtful. I couldn't remember her, and three years was a long time to service the men of the Watch.

‘Do you use them?' Ballard needled, his words as sharp as my darts. ‘After Garrick's finished, do you revisit your crimes and use those girls?'