Watershed (39 page)

Sarah stared at the page and the old quill and the little jar of ink. She hadn't written a letter for months, and Jeremiah hadn't asked to see one. She couldn't think of a single thing that would interest him; nothing she penned could hope to compete with what he'd done.

The room no longer gave her the comfort it once had. Without Daniel, and with Jeremiah's continued nightly absences, it had become a cell for one, cold and silent. The mornings were only marginally better; she'd wake to see him alive at least, but her greetings were rarely returned, any questions about where he'd been or whom he'd seen either ignored or answered with a careless shrug. Worse were the evenings: the brief twilight meal that she'd watch him gulp down before he rose to leave again without explanation or farewell.

It wasn't that he was neglecting his duties – he worked each day and collected his water, emptied the pots every morning, bought and fetched wood or seawater when needed, and would even shop at market if she asked – but his sporadic physical presence wasn't enough to compensate for the long absence of his spirit. That was what she missed, almost as much as she missed Daniel.

Conversation and laughter, the sharing of memories and dreams, were now a thing of the past; she had no idea what he thought, and dreaded to imagine what he might dream. Give him time, Tee had told her. Let him work it out. But how much time would be enough, and what if he couldn't? What if he found the trouble he sought, or worse, if it found him?

Tonight, when she'd begged him to stay, citing the earlier curfew, Jeremiah had shrugged his disregard as though such laws
had been made for the very purpose of thwarting. Please take care, she'd said. There are so many guards. Only then had he smiled, wolfish and hungry, and said: Yeah, I know! The door slammed behind him and Sarah had slowly sat again to her lonely meal.

Now her hand rested on its heel, holding the quill, reluctant to bend to the paper. It was such an old hand, thin and bony with its ropy blue veins, under-skin rivers that wound through valleys of sinew and muscle. When she died these rivers would dry to no blood, as the rivers of the world had dried to no water, she and the world the same. The thought didn't depress her; sometimes she even longed for it. But for now, and as long as those veins stayed thick and full, she could only wait for death as patiently as she waited for Jeremiah's return.

She stared at the paper again. When he finally came home, she was already in bed. But the page was still blank.

Jeremiah pushed his food around on his plate, sullen and brooding. It was something he did when he was worried, but he wouldn't speak and he kept glancing at the curtain, as though willing even the sun to hurry and set so he might escape. Sarah didn't know how she knew, but his search was over at last.

She didn't try to stop him. Not this time. She watched him buckle on his knife – the one Daniel had given him – and pull his cloak over his broadening shoulders without saying a word. And she was almost glad to see him go, relieved that he'd take with him the thick, dark mood that had smothered them both for so long, and cast it off before returning to her, whole again.

Yes, she was happy he was leaving. But later, when he didn't come home, not that night or the next or any night after, she was terrified.

Cobb wasn't at his counter when I left, and remembering his prediction as I signed out with the sentries, I knew he'd probably have a good laugh about me not going the distance. No names were listed below mine and, quickly scanning the page, I noticed I was also the last to leave. If I hadn't already been so paranoid, that might've rung a few alarms.

The compound was never a bustling place. Watchmen came and went, sentries stood guard, silent and obedient, the tunnels were avenues to be used when needed for the delivery of messages or to get from one place to another, echoing with footfalls and the ring of shouts and curses from the arena, none of them ever too busy or noisy. But as soon as I climbed the stairs to make my way back to my room, I knew something wasn't right. There's quiet, and then there's no fucking noise at all; there's the gloom cast by a couple of dozen wall lamps, and then there's the darkness left by none. The silence was unnerving enough, but the faint glow up ahead, where just a single lamp lit the junction of tunnels, made me hesitate. The lamps were always doused at night, saving the fat, but by my reckoning there was still an hour or two before sundown. Maybe I should've rejoiced; I knew it so well I could walk the compound
blindfolded, and the added darkness would only work in my favour. But I wasn't real trusting of coincidence, and my gut churned again as I thought of a hundred reasons why I shouldn't be grateful for any unlooked-for favours. Why, just when I needed every bit of help I could get, was it suddenly being offered?

Worse, what if it wasn't?

Hurrying to my quarters, I slumped against the closed door. Ballard had told me to use my time well, to plan and scheme and wait for news from the Port. But there'd be no such news now. And in my experience, Garrick had never been one to sit and wait for others' plans to unfold all nice and neat, everything falling exactly as it should. So I hadn't planned or schemed or done any of the things I'd been told. Because every plan, even the most ambitious, is seeded with hope. Hope that every possibility's been considered, and a blind belief that nothing will go wrong. When a plan's been screwed with, that hope still carries on, all desperate and don't-forget-me, coz maybe, just maybe, there's a loophole, something that's been overlooked, something your enemy hasn't foreseen. But that's the kind of thinking that can get a man killed. So I reckoned I was already one-up by having no plan. No plan meant no hope. And no fucking disappointments.

Except it didn't give me many advantages either. There was a real good chance there'd be no Disses making their way to the compound gates, but I couldn't take the risk there wouldn't be, either. I'd seen first-hand how the Guard extracted information from prisoners, the lengths they went to, and it was a given that Cade and Ballard and Tate would cave, spitting out every single detail. It was just a question of when. The only thing I could rely on with any certainty was the Tower not yet knowing that I knew. And if they were expecting me to make certain moves, to stick to Ballard's instructions and follow my orders, then maybe it'd pay to do just that. But I'd do it my way. Because a game's no contest when only one side is playing.

Fishing out the box, I grabbed the gun and opened the loading gate, relieved to see the ammo still bedded inside the chamber. I tucked it into the small of my back, under my shirt, but though it went against every instinct and every principle, though I still strapped on my knives and hid another in my leggings, I left the bows and the staff untouched.

You're better off sticking with what you know
.

Except, they knew it too. So this time I was better off without them.

The best way to hide any intent – even when there's no one around to see it – is to make it look like you have none. Ignoring the race of my heart, I slowed my feet, even pausing for a few seconds at the junction, beneath the lamp, before turning east and continuing up the long tunnel, pressing to the wall, sinking myself into stone and leaving no opportunity for any silhouette. But I needn't have bothered with any kind of stealth, because I wasn't halfway there before I heard all their noise: heavy hammering, and a whole lot of cursing.

Not the usual two sentries, but four. No, six! They milled in front of the gate, in the faint circle cast by another lamp, and even from a distance I could see they were barricading the gate, nailing lengths of wood across the frame and blocking the exit. And any earlier bravado, fuelled by my foolish certainty of being one step ahead of the Tower, hissed right out of me.
Shit!

I didn't waste any more time watching. I'd wasted plenty downstairs and now I was paying for it. Instead, needing to know for sure, I retreated slowly, creeping back the way I'd come, into the main tunnel, past the next three turnoffs before taking the left fork to the south and sidling downhill. I slowed to a crawl, then a stop and counted another six men doing exactly the same thing at that gate.
Just as I'd threatened back in the mine, Micah and his men were indeed being left out in the cold.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Crouched in the dark, I thought through my options; there weren't many. I couldn't use the gun; couldn't afford to waste any of the cartridges, and even with the banging going on, the noise would only bring others. And where the hell was the rest of the Watch? I still hadn't seen or heard a single one, though the sentries were deterrent enough. They might've been raws but they weren't completely useless; with only my knives and none of my bows, taking them out would prove a hard fight and not one I could afford to risk yet. There was still Garrick to deal with. It might not be happening in the order I'd hoped, but killing him now seemed the only chance I'd have to get Alex out safely. And there was Reed to kill too, a request I yearned to fulfil.

Kill them all. Do it for me.

But there were other words ringing in my head too, just as insistent and a whole lot more reasonable, and eyeing the blocked gate, picturing the little cavern beyond, the bright gap in the stone that'd now be dulling to black with the fall of night, I thought I could almost hear the last of the wind, imagined I could smell the Sea, felt the lure of open space. Past those sentries, through the gate and the crevice, beyond the compound and away from the Citadel, lay freedom. I had nothing with me; no water, no food, no cloak, my best weapons were still in my room and, below, Alex waited on a dirty cot, afraid and alone and counting on me. But in that moment, with the cold darkness all around and the light ahead, none of it mattered. All I could sense was dust and heat and safety, and all I felt was a deep yearning to pull my knives, do what I knew I could, hope I got through it unscathed, and just walk away. Leave everything behind and start over.

It's not too late for you.

It'd be so easy. Fuck knows I'd served my time, paying my dues and then some, and I owed nothing to anyone. I knew how to hide out and how to make do. And if Garrick ever came for me, well then we'd finally have our reckoning.

I could do it. I would. I knew I should. My fingers slid to the hilt of a knife.

Do it for me.

A quick shiver, a bitter smile, and the moment passed.

Because it seemed Ballard was wrong after all. We don't always get to choose our path; sometimes it's chosen for us.

‘What are you doin' out here, lad?'

Fighting my panic, I turned and saw Taggart a few feet behind me, just out of the light, his grizzled face shadowed and giving me nothing. What was I doing here? What the fuck was
he
doing? Had he tailed me? Had he seen me come out of the south tunnel?

‘What d'you mean?' I asked, stalling, stalling …
C'mon, Jem, think!
Then, just in case, I added, ‘What the hell's happening at the gates?'

He cocked his head. Taggart didn't miss much. ‘We're in lockdown. Everyone's confined to quarters.'

Which explained why no one else had signed in downstairs. And maybe it went some way to explaining why I hadn't seen a single Watchman in the tunnels. But it sure as hell didn't explain why Taggart was prowling around and bailing me up.

‘Lockdown?” I asked. ‘Why? What's going on?' Like I didn't know.

He moved closer and sidestepped the question. ‘You didn't get the order?'

So I did the same. ‘Looks like you missed it too, old man,' I said, reminding him, for what it was worth.

He shrugged. ‘I was comin' to fetch you, but I guess I'm done.' He paused, and eyed me straight. ‘Garrick's askin' for you.'

I felt my hackles rise, stiffening to spikes, all rigid and uncomfortable. ‘Why?'

‘Dunno, lad. Reckon he'll tell you when he sees you.'

Yeah, I reckoned he would. That, and other things. But Garrick sending for me just as I was heading his way was a little too convenient, and those hackles wouldn't settle.

‘You running his errands now, Taggart?'

Taggart raised an eyebrow. ‘We all run his errands, Jem.' When I didn't reply he gave another quick shrug, like he didn't care either way. ‘All I know is I've been with him the past couple of hours, and he sent me. I wasn't gunna argue about it.'

‘No,' I said. And at least one question had been answered. If he'd been with Garrick and still hadn't slit my throat – fuck knows he would've had plenty of opportunities before now – then it meant he had no idea of my involvement. Of course, answering one question led to asking a whole lot more: had Garrick not told him, or had Garrick not yet been told himself? Just how much had the Tower let on, and how long did I have before everything was revealed?

‘C'mon, lad,' said Taggart, coming up beside me. ‘He said to make it quick, and he's in a shit of a mood.'

But as far as I could tell, Garrick had been in a shit of a mood ever since I'd returned from the Hills.

‘Yeah?' I asked, dragging it out to give my brain time to work. ‘What's today's excuse?'

‘Does he need one?' Taggart returned. He flashed me one of his gritty grins, and it took just a couple of seconds for me to return it. Because another problem had solved itself: I now had a legitimate reason to access Garrick's quarters.

‘Guess not,' I said, and at Taggart's curt nod we set off along the tunnel, him setting the pace and me matching it. But the closer we got to Garrick, the more pressed I felt, like I was being pushed into the earth, weighted down, every breath a struggle, and every
heartbeat a hammer, thumping in my ears so loudly it was a wonder the other man couldn't hear it.

‘Still haven't told me where you were,' Taggart said at last.

His question caught me off guard and it took an age to think of any sort of reply. If he wasn't suspicious yet, my nervous fucking around might just be enough to get him there.

‘Downstairs,' I said. ‘Then I thought I'd get some fresh air. Been cooped in here too long.' And wasn't that the truth?

‘Without a cloak?' he asked, and I cursed his sharp old eyes.

Kill him!
My brain screamed.
Kill him now!

Except I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. Since I'd first joined the Watch, Taggart had always seen me right; no friend, but the closest I'd come to having one. And his question wasn't unreasonable. He might've once called the shots, but not any more, and whatever Garrick was up to, it'd be a mistake to panic now. Like the rest of us, Taggart was just doing what he was told and if he died before all this was over it wouldn't be by my hand. I reckoned he deserved that much.

‘Wasn't gunna go out in it,' I said. ‘Just needed the air. When I saw all the sentries, I figured something was up.' My voice sounded harder than it needed to, and I struggled to calm myself.

Maybe sensing my concern, definitely misreading it, he said, ‘Don't worry, lad. I ain't tellin'.'

I nodded, surprise disguised as thanks, and we didn't speak again. We rounded the last corner and stopped at the entrance so the sentry could check us in. This was the moment I'd been dreading, the moment everything hinged on, and I watched Taggart hand over his knife and a gun, not a six-shooter, but squarish and black. Then it was my turn. I placed my knives on the table, feeling the wrench as I let each go.