This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 11

'By Ban-Keren, my Lord Dageor,' Roth replied stiffly, with a slight incline of his head. 'Although I must respectfully remind you, I am no longer a Commander of the sacred Order. I am now but the King's Master Librarian and I leave my former rank to one far more worthy than I.'

Dageor's mouth curled into a beatific smile. 'Indeed. Old habits, you understand?'

Old habits, my arse. Roth knew full well that Dageor sought only to remind him that his time as Special Commander of the King's Elite Guard was long dead and that he had no right to accept the rank addressed in the priest's greeting. It was typical of the sly bastard. He could crush a man with his words, harder than any Highguard could crush bones under his boot, but Roth was used to this. It was an endless game the dark priest liked to play, and Roth was gladdened to be somewhat free of it these tides – until now, it seemed.

'It is a rare tide to see you grace the Citadel Vaults, my Lord,' Roth said. 'Is there something I can assist you with? Something that you seek?'

Dageor clasped his pale, bony hands together. 'I am here on King's business.'

Roth raised a brow, his insides knotting. 'King's business? May I then ask why not summon me to the palace?'

Dageor took a step forward into the room. 'My noble Vi-Garran, I am certain you would not wish me to summon you, for that would then be within an official capacity.'

'The King's business is always official, my Lord.'

'Quite.' Dageor's tone sharpened. 'But not all of the King's business needs to be recorded by the scribes, just to end up on scrolls that will gather dust in the Citdael Vaults, which, I believe, was something you yourself protested about to His Most Exalted on your last audience with him.' He smiled again. 'The King is most generous to the needs of his noble Master Librarian, and former Special Commander, hence why I am here and you are not at the palace.'

Roth bowed his head. 'Then your inconvenience is truly my honour, my Lord.'

'I am sure.' Dageor hovered closer to the edge of Roth's desk, casting his hooded gaze over the chaos of tomes and scrolls that remained stacked there. 'I wish to converse with you on your ward, my noble Vi-Garran. The novice who goes by the name of Juda Vikaris.'

Roth's black heart jolted into life. 'What of him?'

Dageor pulled a book towards him, casually drawing back the cover, his long fingernails raking at the pages. 'As you know, it is my obligation and duty as High Priest of Druvari and the King's most trusted aide, to keep an ever-watchful eye on the development of all the novices within the Order. Commander Grim does the most excellent job in priming our Druvarian sons to honour His Most Exalted with their service, but it has to be said, The Grim lacks a certain bias, shall we say, for the noble heirs.'

'What do you expect, Lord Dageor?' Roth shrugged. 'The Grim was dragged up on the condemned streets of Grimefell. He cut his teeth on the black rock itself and was hardened not in the training yard, but by the heat and hammer of his father's forge, before he ever stepped foot inside the bloody square itself. He has no love for the nobles, for it was the nobles who would have thrust his face into the fire to ensure he never became a novice. That said, you will find none better than The Grim to fashion steel out of silk.'

'Yes, yes, I am aware,' Dageor said. 'However, there are some who say that his humble beginnings favour those rare creatures who find themselves honoured, not with a pitiful existence in the slums, but with a life of duty to the King himself.' He paused, his steady gaze resting on Roth. 'I am sure you must have heard of the unfortunate end of Shipmaster Bo-Dreven's son in the training yard?'