"Fucking Highguard scum," Bazel muttered under his breath, as he pushed himself into the nook in the alleyway, waiting for the patrol to move on.

The alcove was layered thick with spiderwebs and reeked of piss. Another reason to hate The Order for stepping up their watch in the slums. There were too many of the bastards lurking around every corner, each clutching their scimitar like it was an extension of their kreeworm cock, that same impassive blank expression on their stupid fucking faces.

A spider, disturbed from its web, tickled Bazel's ear and he slapped at it, a shiver of repulsion scratching down his spine.

By the dead gods, he hated this.

Anton had been right. The curfew was killing trade. How was he meant to earn his usual purse when his best moments often happened past eventide, when the shadows clustered and cloaked him in their protective gloom? Even working in less favourable light now was no better, because he could barely step one foot close to the Grimefell border without some drouzka Highguard appearing to question him with what are you doing, where are you going, get back to the gutter, you filthy little rat thief. This tide, he'd earnt less than half his usual haul and a sharp backhand across his cheekbone, which was throbbing like a bitch.

Of course, the task at hand was to find Elara, but Bazel saw no harm in trying to snag a tasty coin purse or a fancy silver trinket along the way. After all, the price of fresh water on the black market was rising by the tide, and Elara or not, they still needed to pay if they didn't want to die of thirst. The King's promise to grant them their share if they did as he asked only seemed to be making the people more fraught and violent.

The talk of a Naiad living within the slums had set Grimefell aflame.

Fear was a terrible beast when people were desperate, and by fuck, were they ever. There had already been three deaths Bazel knew of, where accused women had been dragged from their homes and tossed into the Setalah by baying mobs, only for their assailants to discover their Naiad couldn't survive the cursed waters after all. The one to which Bazel had paid witness had been a foul affair and make no mistake—the jeers, the fury, the terror underlying it all—but it rankled him to admit that it wasn't the poor innocent woman he had thought of then, but the prospect of Elara being victim to the same witch hunt. Beaten. Spat at. Tortured. Dragged by her ankles through the streets until the skin was flayed from her back.

The guilt he'd felt, knowing this woman was not guilty of these supposed crimes of mere existence levelled by King Ban-Keren, but watching and doing nothing...well, the only thing to distract him was the brief thrill he got from lifting the coin purse of some unsuspecting and stupid noble who'd come to watch the spectacle.

And yet, how was he meant to do that and find Elara, when the bastard Order seemed intent on turning up just when he was in pursuit of his target?

Shaking off the shiver the spider had left behind to haunt his flesh, Bazel slipped from the nook and made his way towards the rear of the alleyway, stopping to peer round the corner before he continued.

Across the way, Midgulch Bridge, the main thoroughfare between this quarter and the next, was quieter than usual. The strong midtide sun broke through overhead, making Bazel squint from his hiding place in the shadows.

Raising his arm to protect from the glare, Bazel blinked, his eyes adjusting and then widening as he watched the man crossing from one side of the bridge to the other. The man kept his head down, but glanced about him in such a nervous way; Bazel knew a noble-born shirker when he saw one. The man was tall, well-built, with a cloak that must have easily cost ten whole King's drams and leather boots that Bazel would have considered slitting a throat for if only his feet were big enough to fit in them. Still, they'd certainly fetch a good price down at the Sea Dog. Half those wretched drouzkas would give a full tide's coin to don a pair of boots like those.

"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.

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."

"Perhaps," the man replied. "Although not yours, lad. Too much bone and gristle. And he cares nothing for books either. He'd much rather see them on the fire. They're more use to him as fuel for warmth than fuel for the mind."

Bazel rolled his eyes. "Well, as scintillating as this little conversation is, I have places to be, coin to thieve..."

"Like this coin?" The man swept back his cloak, revealing the purse against his hip.

You foolish drouzka, Borna. Lured in by a hefty purse and your own stupid greed.

It aggrieved him to know he'd been played so well by this Librarian or whoever he was. Erron and the other rats would spend the next tides pissing in their britches about this. Cree would knock him senseless until the memory of a backhand from a Highguard felt like a blessed dream he wished he could relive.

He sniffed. "Probably filled with rocks."

"No rocks, boy. And it's yours...if you do something for me."

Bazel stared hard at him, or as hard as could at a man who was the height of a small mountain. "You're not my type."

The man chuckled again. "Nor you mine. But I do want you to come with me. Let's just say, I have an errand for you to run."

"I'm a thief, not a messenger," Bazel said, dismissive, even if his gaze couldn't help but be drawn by the purse. There had to be a good ten King's dram in there, maybe more. "Go fetch one of the mail runners."

"No, it has to be you," the man said. "I hear you're the best there is."

Apparently not anymore. And yet, this man seemed to think so. And then there was that blasted purse of his.

"Come with me to the Library. Do what I ask of you and the coin is yours. All of it." He loosened the drawstring, allowing Bazel a glimpse of the silver inside.

Borna, this will be a madness. Don't let the glint of silver make you lose your mind.

"What's the water fetching on the black market these tides, boy? You'd have enough for a fair half barrel."

Bazel swallowed, his saliva like a dry paste on his tongue.

"I can barter you a good price. Maybe even enough for three-quarters. All for one measly little errand," the man said, tightening his purse again and concealing it under his cloak.

Bazel's heart kicked him sharp in the breastbone. He wanted that fucking purse like he'd never wanted anything in his miserable bastard life. And maybe while he was at the Library, he could pocket a pricey tome or two, or filch a candlestick holder or a fancy letter-opener. This drouzka was bound to have a letter-opener. All those rich nobles had one. They couldn't bear the slice of a paper cut on their fine fingers.

"Fine," he said. "But I want half of that pretty purse before I even step foot out of this piss-stinking alleyway, or you can take your shitty King-licking breath and go sweet talk some other slum boy."

"One quarter now, one quarter at the Library, and the remainder upon completion of the task."

Bazel held out his hand. "Then we have a deal, you big bastard drouzka."

The man gripped his palm and yanked him close. "Good then. Oh, and best you think twice before your other hand wanders any closer to my dagger than it already is, boy, or I'll be forced to cut off your fingers and make fucking earrings out of them."

Bazel scowled and withdrew his hand.

Who was this fucking guy?

***

Bazel had never once set foot inside the King's Library, but he'd always liked to look at it. It was a masterful piece of architecture, all black stone and jutting towers, like a puzzle that had been assembled wrong but somehow still looked like it was meant to, albeit slightly crooked and off-kilter.

If he'd thought it a puzzle from the outside, that was nothing compared to the reality on the inside. This was where it really got a bit fucked up, because he was certain he and the Librarian had walked this passageway already. Whether that was because they all looked the same or because the whole place was one gigantic spooky maze, he couldn't have said for sure. All he knew was that even he, Bazel Borna, would find it tricky to get out of here without the guidance of the fancy-shoed drouzka who was pacing ahead of him with such long steps that he'd never felt more like a rat, scurrying behind.

"Look, no offence," he said, turning into another passage. "I know I agreed to this errand of yours, but I want to make it perfectly clear from the start that I will not be your pet, okay? You want me to thieve something, sneak inside somewhere, then yes. But if it's going to involve any kind of perfumed oil in my hair or lounging on a cushion while you pretend to paint me, then you can get well and truly fu—"

The Librarian spun on his heels in a far nimbler way than his size would suggest he could. He looked down at Bazel, his dark brow knitted. "Rat, I swear by the dead gods you better turn out to be what I have been told you are, because I am growing weary of your constant chittering."

To be fair, Bazel had not stopped talking since they'd set off from the edge of Grimefell. He was always like this when he'd not taken a sniff of riverweed all tide. Nerves, Cree always said, but Bazel preferred to call it character, and a mighty fine one at that.

Besides, he couldn't bear the weighty oppressive air that hung over the man, much like thickening clouds that misted a mountaintop.

"Excuse me for wishing to partake in conversation," Bazel said, with a roll of his eyes. "I would have thought a man such as yourself might appreciate it."

The Librarian's eyes narrowed. "And why would you think that?"

Bazel gave a shrug. "You look the type who doesn't have many friends. If any at all."

For one moment, he expected the man to reach out and cuff him across the other side of his face, such was the dark look that came into his eyes, but it was soon replaced with a glimmer of amusement as his lips curled into a smile.

The Librarian shook his head and chuckled. "You really are as she said."

"As who said?" Bazel asked, puzzled.

Turning to a door just aside of him, the Librarian pulled a key from his belt chain and unlocked it. It gave with a shriek of oil-hungry hinge that made Bazel wince.

"Why, the friend you seek. Who else would it be?" He nudged Bazel through the doorway with his elbow, hard enough to make the boy stumble into the room.

Reeling off a tirade of obscenities and rubbing his back, Bazel righted himself and smoothed out his clothes for the second time that eventide.

"I told you his vocabulary was more colourful than any you'd find in one of Clova Dell's bedchambers," a dry voice commented from the shadows, the face soon coming into the warm halo of candlelight.

Bazel's eyes widened, his heart pounding as it did whenever he managed to pocket whatever prize he chased.

"Elara!" he cried, before swallowing hard when he saw his friend's amused expression and gathering himself together with a puff of his chest and usual scowl. "Here we've been, scouring every piss-stinking alleyway and shit-drenched gutter in Grimefell, and you're here sipping wine with this big bastard dutzal and enjoying the warmth of his fireside like you don't have a care in the world. How could you?"

Elara stepped closer, her face weary and drawn, eyes moistening in a way that was very unlike her.

She didn't have to say anything else for him to throw himself at her and hug her tight, which was very unlike him.

"Thank the dead gods, you're safe, Elara," he whispered, as she squeezed him back. "Thank the dead gods."