This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 35

"Fucking Highguard scum," Bazel muttered under his breath, as he pushed himself into the nook in the alleyway, waiting for the patrol to move on.

The alcove was layered thick with spiderwebs and reeked of piss. Another reason to hate The Order for stepping up their watch in the slums. There were too many of the bastards lurking around every corner, each clutching their scimitar like it was an extension of their kreeworm cock, that same impassive blank expression on their stupid fucking faces.

A spider, disturbed from its web, tickled Bazel's ear and he slapped at it, a shiver of repulsion scratching down his spine.

By the dead gods, he hated this.

Anton had been right. The curfew was killing trade. How was he meant to earn his usual purse when his best moments often happened past eventide, when the shadows clustered and cloaked him in their protective gloom? Even working in less favourable light now was no better, because he could barely step one foot close to the Grimefell border without some drouzka Highguard appearing to question him with what are you doing, where are you going, get back to the gutter, you filthy little rat thief. This tide, he'd earnt less than half his usual haul and a sharp backhand across his cheekbone, which was throbbing like a bitch.

Of course, the task at hand was to find Elara, but Bazel saw no harm in trying to snag a tasty coin purse or a fancy silver trinket along the way. After all, the price of fresh water on the black market was rising by the tide, and Elara or not, they still needed to pay if they didn't want to die of thirst. The King's promise to grant them their share if they did as he asked only seemed to be making the people more fraught and violent.

The talk of a Naiad living within the slums had set Grimefell aflame.

Fear was a terrible beast when people were desperate, and by fuck, were they ever. There had already been three deaths Bazel knew of, where accused women had been dragged from their homes and tossed into the Setalah by baying mobs, only for their assailants to discover their Naiad couldn't survive the cursed waters after all. The one to which Bazel had paid witness had been a foul affair and make no mistake—the jeers, the fury, the terror underlying it all—but it rankled him to admit that it wasn't the poor innocent woman he had thought of then, but the prospect of Elara being victim to the same witch hunt. Beaten. Spat at. Tortured. Dragged by her ankles through the streets until the skin was flayed from her back.

The guilt he'd felt, knowing this woman was not guilty of these supposed crimes of mere existence levelled by King Ban-Keren, but watching and doing nothing...well, the only thing to distract him was the brief thrill he got from lifting the coin purse of some unsuspecting and stupid noble who'd come to watch the spectacle.

And yet, how was he meant to do that and find Elara, when the bastard Order seemed intent on turning up just when he was in pursuit of his target?

Shaking off the shiver the spider had left behind to haunt his flesh, Bazel slipped from the nook and made his way towards the rear of the alleyway, stopping to peer round the corner before he continued.

Across the way, Midgulch Bridge, the main thoroughfare between this quarter and the next, was quieter than usual. The strong midtide sun broke through overhead, making Bazel squint from his hiding place in the shadows.

Raising his arm to protect from the glare, Bazel blinked, his eyes adjusting and then widening as he watched the man crossing from one side of the bridge to the other. The man kept his head down, but glanced about him in such a nervous way; Bazel knew a noble-born shirker when he saw one. The man was tall, well-built, with a cloak that must have easily cost ten whole King's drams and leather boots that Bazel would have considered slitting a throat for if only his feet were big enough to fit in them. Still, they'd certainly fetch a good price down at the Sea Dog. Half those wretched drouzkas would give a full tide's coin to don a pair of boots like those.