It had been a whole tide since Juda's encounter with the Naiad, and still his rage would not calm. It roared over the black rocks of his mind, violent and unrelenting in its onslaught.
She'd threatened him. Mocked him.
He could still hear her laughter ringing in his ears. Could still see the cruel curve of her lips, her face imperious and haughty, highlighted by the azure flame of the dragon gold that lined the cavern walls. He could still feel the cold sting of her blade against his throat.
All tide in the training yard, he had ached for a chance to release the fury that stirred within his bones, the heat building until he thought he might scream out his frustrations from the balcony where he viewed the novices chosen to prove themselves. He was meant to watch the scene with dead eyes and a cold heart, yet how could he accomplish such a thing when the fire burned out of control in his chest and his eyes saw only her?
The winning novice – a churlish, entitled brat-son of the banker Benal Tor-Narun – had done well. As much as Juda had hated to admit it, Rimo Tor-Narun possessed real skill with the scimitar. There was an ease with which he gripped the blade. A fluidity to his hand movements. On any other occasion, Juda would have been studying the fight with a keen eye, mentally taking note of every action so he could eventually exploit it to his own gain, if matched within the combat square. But this tide, he could only stand and try to subdue the fiery disquiet that vented a storm inside him.
He was certain also that The Grim had noticed. A couple of times, he'd felt the stony gaze of his Commander upon him, like an itch under his skin, scratching at his flesh. Now was not the time to attract the wrong kind of attention. Now was not the time for Juda to lose his way. He'd worked too hard. Lost too much. He couldn't falter, not when he was so close. The possibility that his goal would slip from of his grasp was not an option, and yet it had taken Juda everything to maintain control as he watched Rimo push his blade into the new recruit's throat.
He felt the sharp nick of the witch's dagger then.
The way the water had tightened on his wrists and ankles.
The firm grip of her thighs upon his hips.
And he hated her for it.
The witch would pay. He was going to make sure of that. It wouldn't be too hard to find her in the cutthroat streets of Grimefell. There was no loyalty here if the price was the right one. There was always someone willing to loosen their tongue for enough coin. By the dead gods, he'd even offer the Dreynian water if he had to, but he would find her and then he would rid her from this world and in doing so, rid her from his mind.
Only then could he be free to focus on what really mattered.
In the meantime, Juda had to find a way to douse his rage. To feel something other than this whirlpool in his chest that sucked at his energy and his resolve.
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.
Juda said nothing but allowed his gaze to feel its way through the shadows, picking out the location of the others. The faint odour of riverweed hung in the stagnant air.
'They talk of you, you know,' Erron said, shifting so that both legs now draped over the edge. 'The girls in the whorehouse. The novice who uses his skilful hands to bring them pleasure, not pain. They take your coin and your côck most gladly. You're not like the others, they say.'
Juda resisted the urge to let his hand linger over his scimitar. Damn the loose mouths of those whores. If the gangs honestly believed him to be softer than his fellow Highguards, he would be marked as a weak spot in the armour of the Order. And more importantly, he could not let such talk get back to those novices who also paid for what Juda now sought.
'I hate to dispel this clearly misguided but rather touching illusion you have of me, Erron,' he said. 'But we are all the same. Some of us just choose to inflict pain on those who have truly earnt it. True pleasure comes only from the agony of those who disobey the Order. After all, an affront upon the Order, is an affront upon the King himself, by Ban-Keren it is.'
A low hiss emanated from the dark. Grimefell's hatred of the Order was bested only by their hatred and fear of the King.
'Now, I have business to attend to. I suggest you get to yours before I forget you are all yet to reach manhood.'
Erron smiled and gestured with his hand. 'Then, by all means, you have our permission to continue on your way. We will not trouble you.'
'I seek not your permission, rat,' Juda said, dead eyeing the boy in a way that washed the grin from his filthy face. 'And I need it even less. I will go wherever I please, and the only trouble that will arise here will be as a result of you believing you and I have any reason to converse as equals when we are anything but.'
The slum rats in the shadows slunk back, seeking comfort from the dark. Erron glowered from his vantage point but remained silent. This was not a battle he could ever win, even if hope and foolish courage had tricked him into thinking it even a remote possibility.
Juda turned and continued on his way, sensing the ghost of the boy's dagger embedded deep into his spine, and knowing he was going to have to work fast if he was going to dislodge it.
But first, he needed to deal with girls who worked for Clova Dell, and that was going to cost him far more than he'd ever thought it would.
One thing was certain. Roth was going to be pissed. He'd always said that Juda's côck would be his downfall.
***
Clova Dell, the brothel mistress, was a fine woman and no mistake.
Reaching just beyond her fortieth moon, Juda would have gladly employed her services if his coin stretched that far, but these days it was only the merchants of the mid-echelon who could afford her. Multi-skilled, not just with her body, but with a ligature and an adept knowledge of apothecary, Clova could bring a man to the cusp of delicious pain with the tightening of her silk cords and keep him hard for many tides with her array of tiny bottles and vials of poisons and potions.
Her dark red hair, dyed with foxwort seeds, was always piled high on top, and worn long at the back, stretching down to small of her shapely back. The small, dark etchings on her skull showed between the gaps of her tight braids on either side of her head and journeyed halfway along her high cheekbones.
This moontide, her leather tunic was bound tightly over her breasts, her skirt short enough to spark a stirring in Juda's britches as she uncrossed her long legs and stretched them out to warm them in front of the open fire.
'Estella and Seren have customers,' Clova said, her voice disdainful, even if her admiring gaze told a different story as she cast her eyes over Juda's form. 'You can take Shyla, or even the new girl, Boda. She's not quite got the hang of things, but I'm sure you can guide her.'
Juda scowled. 'If I had the time to teach your girls how to do their job, Clova, I'd demand triple the fee that you skim from their earnings and then I could run this place while you take your chances in the training yard.'
The brothel mistress smiled. 'You think those rich boys would last half a morntide with me, noble Highguard? They'd be turning bright purple and choking on their own vomit before you could strap your fine body into this tunic. Although, that is a sight that even I might pay to see.' Her gaze rested on his crotch, bold and brazen as always.
He sighed. 'I don't want Shyla and I certainly don't want a girl you've only just taken in off the streets and is probably still stinking of filth. I want Estella or Seren.'
'All my girls are clean, you know that.' She looked sharply at him as she withdrew her trademark scarlet ligature from her belt and ran it between her fingers.
'I'm not talking about what swamp critters might lurk between their legs, Clova, and you know that. I want a beginner in my bed no more than the King wants a novice by his side without completing his training first. You get what you pay for, after all, and I want to pay for someone who knows what they're doing, not someone who's going to grip my côck with hands as useless as a corpse. Get me Estella or Seren.'
'And I told you, they are...'
'Ready and available, Clova,' Estella called out, appearing at the top of the winding staircase, as a young man with flaming red cheeks and hunched shoulders scuttled past her, almost barging into Juda before looking up and spotting the black slash of the batak oil marking the novice's face.
Issuing a tiny shriek, the fleeing man skipped around him and ran out of the door. Juda raised a brow as he heard the distinctive sound of Estella's customer missing a few steps and crying out in pain as he stumbled down them.
'By the dead gods, girl,' Clova said, not even rising from her chair. 'What did you do?'
Estella looked offended and adjusted the top of her tunic which was unlaced all the way down to just above the gentle curve of her belly.
'It was not what I did, but what he didn't do. Or couldn't.' She straightened her finger, pointing it to the ceiling before letting it flop. 'I care not. I still earn my coin whether my customers can rise to the occasion or not. Not that I ever have that problem with you,' she added, looking pointedly at Juda.
Clova shrugged. 'Looks like you got what you wanted, Highguard.'
'I always do,' Juda said, but his attention was already fixed upon Estella as she began tugging on the laces of her tunic, her mouth twitching into a grin as she beckoned him to follow her.
Estella's tiny room was at the very top of Clova's dwelling, affording a view over much of the upper east quarter. At this time, it was surprising how beautiful Grimefell could look, with most of it plunged into darkness, the candlelight in the windows sparkling like hundreds of stars in the moontide sky. It was easy to look at it and forget the rot, if only for a short while. Besides, the hunger for release always served to distract Juda from the warm spots of light that captivated him so.
There was a better warmth to be found in Estella's bed. One that would satisfy him and give him that momentary reprieve he needed from the emptiness he mostly felt these tides.
And Juda needed it badly. Maybe more than he ever had since he'd joined the Order.
'Come to me, Juda.'
He hated that he'd told her his name. It had been a moment of weakness and he despised himself for breaking his resolve and telling Estella, when he should have told her to mind her fucking business. She'd no doubt told the others, just as she had told the slum rats that she enjoyed Juda for the pleasure he gave her, and not just for the coin he paid.
Swirls of riverweed curled above his head from the pipe that Estella had taken a drag from and had now left smouldering on the rack by her bed. The smell infused his nostrils and made him a little woozy.
'Look at me, Juda.'
Juda turned, seeing not the naked form of Estella laying on top of ruffled bed linen, but the witch, her thighs open, hands palming her taut nipples.
He blinked, trying to shake the image of the Naiad from his mind.
Estella's face swam into view, her lips – red and swollen from her previous encounters this tide - curling into a smile.
'I think perhaps you are intoxicated, Highguard. You seem a little unsteady on your feet.' Her hand slid down her over her belly, fingers reaching through the smattering of dark hair between her legs until she found the swollen nub that had throbbed for him so many times, he had lost count. 'Or perhaps it is the sight of me that makes your knees weaken.'
Foolish girl. Juda had no doubt now it was Estella who had told Erron that he was soft on her. She thought him to be captivated by her and now Juda was going to have to tell her that he cared no more for her than he did any other woman he had paid to put their warm, wet mouth around his côck. Clova's girls meant nothing to him. They were a means to an end.
His tunic and boots already discarded, Juda knelt on the foot of the bed, loosening his britches as he watched Estella's hand move between her slick thighs.
'Oh,' she breathed. 'The heart does beat, after all. I can feel it, novice. How fast it drums inside your chest.'
Juda blinked again. 'W-what?' he said. 'What did you just say?'
Estella laughed softly. 'I asked if you wanted to feel me, Juda. You're staring so hard at my hand; your mouth is practically watering.'
Juda frowned. The riverweed must have been a particularly potent strain. It was clouding his head, confusing his mind.
The Naiad smiled, her beautiful lips widening to reveal tiny, sharp teeth. He wanted to feel them on his skin, pinpricks of pleasure scratching at his chest, his stomach, his thighs.
By the dead gods, what was happening to him?
'I need you to turn around,' he said, his voice thickening with the effort. 'Face the other way. Get on your knees.'
Estella pouted, but did as he said, moving onto all fours and spreading herself for him.
Juda tugged his britches down over his hips, trying to focus on the release he desperately desired. He would feel better soon. Once it was done. Once it was over.
Grasping her hips, her manoeuvred Estella to where he needed her to be. Pressing himself against her slick folds, he guided himself inside her with his hand as she gasped at the first bone-melting thrust.
Yet, as Estella arched her back and glanced over her shoulder at him, teeth tugging on her full lip, it was only the witch he saw – the small, intricate line of etchings that ran along her collarbone, across her shoulder blades and trailing down her arms to her slender wrists.
'You can beg me if you wish. I think I might like to hear you say the words. Speak now, novice. I will allow it.'
He ached for her now. To run his tongue along the delicate black script. To swirl his fingers in the water that beaded along her spine.
With a cry that bordered on pain, Juda let go. As he crashed into Estella, it was the Naiad he consumed.
Sea scent in her hair. Salt on her skin. Upon his tongue.
The high tide pulled him under, until he was drowning at the very thought of her.