This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 31

Ch. 31

The tavern was a strange place to frequent when the atmosphere was akin to a burial, although Kelena would have wagered that she'd been to livelier entombments than this.

Grimefell had been a subdued but simmering cesspit of dead air since the uprising, and without their share of the Dreynian water shipment, an undercurrent of fear ran through its people with the possibility of a deadly thirst crept ever closer with each tide.

Supplies were dangerously low and with no respite in sight for them, desperation was stretching the slums beyond all imagining. There had already been stories of raids, violent and brutal, as the desperate turned on their neighbours and took what little water was left for themselves. It was always the way here, but what else could they do? The King cared little for what atrocities they committed upon each other, as long as they dared not look upwards to the merchants and nobles of the higher echelons. They could slit each other's throats until the streets ran red with blood and the rest of the citadel would not so much as raise one perfectly arched brow.

Kelena thought she should perhaps have been grateful the tavern wasn't as busy as it normally was. It meant she could keep a close eye on the comings and goings, but the muted conversations of the patrons instead of the usual raucous drunken chaos was setting her teeth on edge, and she'd not been able to banish the constant prickle of unease that plagued her spine. Most here were keeping their heads down, ensuring their conversations were naught but hushed whispers, and made only with those they knew for certain they could trust. The Order's presence in Grimefell since the unrest was like an iron grip around their necks and no one could risk speaking out of turn in earshot of the Highguards—or their spies—who were finding any excuse to send dissenters to the dead fields.

Rubbing the tangled knot of muscles at the back of her neck with a kneading hand, she slowly scanned the tavern from where she sat in the corner, huddled into a nook in the wall farthest from the entrance. She wasn't working this eventide, but she'd come here to wait for Anton and Bazel to return, preferring the familiarity of a place she knew well, where she could keep her back to the wall and her eye on the door. Pinch had even fixed her some food, a stew drier than a bear's arse and a hardened piece of nettle bread, not that she had much of an appetite for it and even less so when she'd caught the tavern's cook eyeing her newly cut hair, half-hidden under her hood.

The fresh rockfern dye she used to darken it was bothering her scalp and the skin between her side braids was already pinkening where she'd been unable to resist the itch. She'd hacked desperately at her long curls the previous moontide, shearing it as short into the neck as she dared, but she was under no illusions it would do any good. People knew her here. Of course, they knew Kelena, not Tala, but she still had no idea how far Mica's search had stretched and whether they knew the Seadog Inn's serving maid wasn't who she claimed to be.

Kelena looked different enough to Tala, she supposed. Older, obviously. Thicker and stronger, where Tala had been small and feeble, her food portions always monitored and controlled by her husband. Kelena avoided the face powders and coloured creams of the noble women—the cosmetics Tala had been forced to wear as if she were one of the dolls on display on her dresser. The tide Tala had fled from Mica had been the last time she had worn a dress. Now, she favoured men's britches and leather vests, shin-high boots with enough space in which to conceal her swiftblade.

No, she was not Tala now, but she could be as still as her. Tala had mastered that skill like Anton had mastered the brush, and Bazel, a light-fingered touch. Better to be still than be noticed. Better not to be noticed than be seen by those who would do her harm. She hoped that, at least, would help her now.

Ensconced in the shadows, Kelena supped the last of the ale in her cup and pushed her empty bowl away from her. The smell of the stew was starting to make her feel sick, or maybe it was just the thought of this whole fucked-up mess.