This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 35

"Just where are you off to, you big, rich, fancy-shoed bastard?" Bazel muttered, looking around to see if the noble had been targeted by any other street rat or vagabond thief.

Deciding the mark was his and his alone, Bazel cut across to the bridge and let his nimble feet carry him over, weaving in and out of the few people who were going about their own business, but always ensuring that he looked like he was just going about his. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his apple and knife, slicing off pieces as he walked. It was softer than he liked, but the juice staved off some of the thirst he was starting to feel. And besides, always best to look preoccupied should your target choose to look back and see someone following.

The man kept walking, doing that foolish thing of checking about him, making it very clear to all that his presence here made him nervous. Nervous men always made good targets. Nerves made for confusion and confusion made for mistakes, sometimes fatal if you were really stupid. Bazel couldn't help but hope the man was really stupid. It was easier to prise boots off a fresh corpse.

On reaching the other side, Bazel took the narrow wooden staircase leading up to the row of balconies that lined the next level, cutting across them with ease and keeping a close eye on the noble down below who had picked up his pace somewhat. Did he suspect? Or was it just the need to get off the Grimefell streets? The slums didn't exactly have a welcoming air about them for those who lived here, let alone those who evidently didn't.

At the end of the balcony, Bazel climbed onto the edge and jumped to the next with ease, his nimble feet and expert balance helping him to run the balustrade keeping in time with the noble who looked to be heading towards the border of Grimefell. Bazel cursed to the dead gods under his breath. He'd need to reach the man before he crossed over the quarter's edge into the mid echelon or risk a backhand around the other cheek.

Crunching into the apple core, Bazel spat the pips—he always hated them even though Kelena insisted they held all the goodness—into the air but ate the rest, sliding his knife back into his belt so he could grab hold of the gutter pipe that carried rainwater down into the gullies and slid down to the cobbles.

The noble was just at the corner up ahead and he stepped back suddenly to allow two men to pass, pressing his back to the wall, his chest rising and falling as he watched them go. Bazel felt like he could almost hear the man's gasp from where he was.

What are you so afraid of, you fucking dutzal?

The man was on the move again, faster now, as if his very life depended on getting out of the slums—and well it might. His fancy cloak swished back, revealing a swollen purse hooked to his belt.

Bazel's heart rocked in his chest, that all-too-familiar beat that he only felt from the lure of the chase, the thrill of the steal. No wonder the noble wanted to get back to the safety of the mid echelon. He was carrying way too much coin to be wandering freely in Grimefell and he knew it. Bazel's sharp gaze scoured the street again, noting how the two men who'd passed by the noble were now looking back themselves, whispering to one another, their faces ripe with the promise of opportunity.

Fuck, fuck, you drouzka.

The noble was never going to make it to the border. By the dead gods, he'd be lucky to make it to the next street.

As he disappeared around the corner, Bazel took his chance to dart after him, slowing to his casual-but-spry step as he turned the junction. Just going about his business, after all, just going...

The noble was gone.

Of the people that were here, none resembled Bazel's target. He couldn't be missed after all, the big bastard that he was.