This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 9

This eventide, he'd expected the streets of Grimefell to be exhausted, the people drained from the previous tide's brogboar run, which were oft raucously drunken affairs – the winners celebrating whatever gain they made from their wagers, the losers commiserating their almost empty pockets. The last race to take place here had prompted a crushing response from the Order, after a wild brawl had seen the Golden Sun tavern over in the west quarter burnt to the ground, taking with it three of the surrounding streets before it was prevented from spreading through the entire slums.

It had been a blood-drenched moontide, that one. Whoever hadn't been killed in the blaze, had met their end slashed open by a scimitar, or had been rounded up with the barbed whip of the Highguards and transported to the dead fields. Either way meant death, of course, but such a price was necessary to destroy dissent and restore the stability and law demanded by Ban-Keren.

As Juda slunk through the stinking footways and alleys, he was surprised to see so many people out on the streets. There was a strange, ominous air about the place that made his skin prickle and his shoulders tug on his spine. To walk the backstreets of Grimefell was always dangerous, particularly here in the upper east quarter where the tributaries of the Setalah snaked through the citadel and one shove from behind could send a man tumbling into the poisonous waters. Narrow fingers of land and the tall dwellings built upon them were connected with a complex network of rickety bridges, most of which were in constant need of repair. Often marshalled by the slum gangs who could demand a full King's dram for the passing, Juda was fortunate only in that his Serpent scar marked him as untouchable, but that didn't mean he could not feel their hardened gaze upon his back and wonder when the tide might come when he'd find himself plummeting towards the dark waters below.

'Here again, Highguard?' A boy's voice called out of the ever-shifting shadows.

Juda stopped at the juncture to two narrow bridges, wide enough only for one person to pass across. He could not see the Setalah far below him, but he knew it was there, hungry for whomever might have the misfortune to end up plunging into its lethal hold.

Turning slowly, Juda peered into the thickening gloom where the sea mist clogged the gantries. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could just make out the figure of the boy, his white-blonde hair reflecting what little light there was from the moon that permeated through the clustered rooftops. The child sat in an open window, one thin, gangly leg dangling over the ledge. In his palm, he balanced the stumpy, hand-carved wooden hilt of a bird's beak knife, casually spinning the blade end with his fingers.

'You're making a habit of venturing into this quarter. Anyone might think you've gone soft for one of our women.'

Laughter chittered out of the darkness, not that Juda hadn't known the boy was not alone. They were never alone. The slum gangs were rats, watching with venomous eyes from the shadows, ready to pick from the scraps and tear with teeth and claw and blade.

'Your women?' Juda said, pushing back the hood of his cloak. 'Erron Rhomm, you're barely more than thirteen moons. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman even if your côck magically came to life and tried in vain to make a man of you.'

If the boy Erron was offended, he didn't show it. Instead, he tossed the blade into the air and caught it deftly by the handle. It was his little flex of power. He was nifty with a dagger, this one, and he could balance on the most precarious of ledges, his nimble feet often bootless as he navigated spaces so narrow that it was a wonder he had room to let out a breath.

'We can't all be blessed with your gifts, novice.'

The inflection in his tone was taunting. The people of Grimefell knew better than to refer to the Highguards in such a way as to remind them that their training was not yet complete. At least, the ones who feared death did. Less could be said of the slum rats. They didn't fear death, especially when a novice had wandered into their quarter on his own on the turn of moontide.