Watershed by Jane Abbott Read Free Book Online

corner, wedged tight and high between the base of the mountains and the inlet, behind the small garrison that still guarded the old pass. The place had since swelled to rival the later and bigger settlements: the township and farms of the eastern Hills where I’d soon be heading, and the stinking shambolic jumble of shacks that lined the wind-battered western cliffs where I’d just been – a shithole of a place that was home to birders and fishermen, as well as the odd Diss or two.
    But more important than the settlements, and for an entirely different reason, was the Port. Nestled into the crumbling cliffs of the eastern coastline, midway between the Hills and the wasteland, and with only a single guarded pass in and out, it provided sanctuary to no one except a hundred or so Guards and the crews of idiots who volunteered to man the Catchers and risk their lives riding the Sea beneath the rain.
    Some said that’d been our greatest achievement, more necessary than even the Citadel, but I was in no hurry to revisit the place. It had been constructed years ago, when the realisation dawned that steaming piss and bucketing seawater miles inland for boiling would never suffice to keep alive the hundreds – then thousands – who’d answered the call and found their way to the peninsula. But if the dream had been an ambitious one, the determination to see it realised had been greater still: the building of the boats,the endless gathering and hauling, splicing and soaking, bending and binding of long-dried wood, the slow melting of old bitumen and fat to caulk the boards and fill any holes; finding, then taming, the wild cove, shaping it into what it was now; rebuilding and refitting engines from scrap, reliable enough to get the boats out to Sea and back again; the collection and storage of every available drop of fuel to drive the ships, as well as to pump the water they’d fetched up the cliffside and out of the Port. They reckon more lives were lost in that time than had been during the last years of the raids, and the reward for that little sacrifice was four deep-hulled ungainly ships that brought in enough slightly brackish water to supplement whatever else was collected, and kept us all alive. Maybe the Disses thought they had good reason to protest all the hardline tactics, but it seemed to me that some people were real stupid to underestimate the Council’s resolve, and far too quick to forget some of the better ideas they’d had.
    I studied the more accurate maps supplied by the Tower, relearning the lay of the land. The Hills were indeed a long way from the Citadel, but I’d been there a few times and knew the route. If I could be sure of working alone, I could get there in under a week, spend a month or so ferreting out the Disses, then another week to return, slower because I’d be bringing back Garrick’s little gift and would have to avoid the road. Unless he went with me, of course, in which case he could bloody well deal with his own spoils. Making a few notes of my own, I added them to the folder before breaking for a meal.
    With more than half the Watch on assignment, the mess hall was fairly empty. And there was no sign of Reed, which didn’t bode well. The food was much the same as always: a piece of saltfish, some kind of coarse stalks boiled to mush, a single gull’s egg, two shrivelled olives with a small cube of cheese, a strip of fried kelp, oily and unappetising, and a single cup of water. On a good day they’d swap the water for camel milk – on a bad day, goat – butyou needed something just to dilute all the salt. The few who were there sat apart, and none of us talked. We had nothing in common except our work, and our solitary existences prevented any friendships, which suited the boys upstairs. Twenty lethal men could do a lot of damage if they got it into their heads to chum it up and band together.
    A plate clattered on the table