This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 35

Bazel's heart juddered, the thrill turning bitter, the taste of sour apple on his tongue.

Something wasn't right...

Barely had the thought entered his head when a strong hand gripped him by the throat—not just strong, but big, wrapping around his entire neck with ease—and dragged him into a shadowy nook. The boy found himself lifted off his feet, another giant hand clapped over his mouth. Even if he hadn't felt like his windpipe was being crushed on all sides by an ironmonger's vice, there was no way he could have made a sound, the shock leeching it from his lungs in an instant.

Confusion made for mistakes. As did greed. He'd always known this. Learnt it the hard way. Slum-rats like him grew up knowing the cost of such an error. That was the truth of Grimefell, where a backhand across the cheekbone was the least of concerns when it was more prudent to worry about losing a hand or someone prising apart your ribs with a dagger.

Yet here he was, halfway up a fucking wall, hands clutching at that which was choking him, legs working harder than a brogboar at the run, as he kicked out frantically.

"Quit your scrapping, boy," the man said, his voice surely deeper than the Setalah itself. "I'm not here to end your pitiful existence, although better men than me would do the decent thing and put you out of your misery. I have a proposition for you."

Lowering Bazel to the ground, the man eased up on the pressure at his throat but kept his hand over his mouth.

"One cry for help and I'll open your belly right here and see that apple you just ate spill out into the dirt."

Bazel's stomach lurched. What, by the dead gods, had happened here? He was Bazel-fucking-Borna and he'd not survived this long without being the best. How in the name of all things low and underhand had he been bested by this noble whose bones had practically rattled as he walked?

"Ah, I see perhaps a glimmer of understanding in those weed-addled eyes, boy. Now, I'm going to remove my hand from this filthy mouth of yours, because by fuck, I'm already repulsed by your drool on my palm. Remember what I warned, mind. Agile you might be, but do not let my bulk fool you. I've dropped faster rats than you into the Setalah, mark my words on that, and I won't hesitate to watch the waters rot you from the inside out."

The noble dropped his hand, and as soon as he did, Bazel released a stream of curses which prompted nothing but a low, throaty chuckle from the noble.

"The tongue of a rat too, I see?" he remarked, looking down at him.

In the glum light of the alley, Bazel saw the razor-sharp glint in the noble's eyes and the hard line of his mouth and knew instantly what a fucking drouzka he'd been. This was no noble. He stank of The Order, like it was oozing from his pores. An old-as-fuck Highguard, mind, but definitely an Order-grade bastard.

Silver streaked the braids either side of his temples and a faint tang of wine spiced his breath.

"Better that than the tongue of one who shoves it so far up the King's arse, he'll be eating royal shit into the grave and beyond," Bazel sniped. "Your breath fucking reeks of it, Highguard."

The man raised one amused brow. "Hmm, we all carry our sins, rat. Some of us more than most. And I am The Order no longer. Retired, you might say. Now, I am Master Librarian to the King's Vault."

Bazel made a show of brushing down his clothes and ironing out the crumples with his palms. "Ah, so you've gone from guarding the King's balls to guarding his books. A noble endeavour. Does he visit you often to show you his gratitude for your service?" The boy swiped his gaze up and down the man. "On second thoughts, I doubt it. You're far too old for that lecherous bastard. He prefers the smooth, supple flesh of a pup."