The Assassin's Blade

CHAPTER 1

The cavernous entrance hall of the Assassins’ Keep was silent as Celaena Sardothien stalked across the marble floor, a letter clutched between her fingers. No one had greeted her at the towering oak doors save the housekeeper, who’d taken her rain-sodden cloak—and, after getting a look at the wicked grin on Celaena’s face, opted not to say anything.

The doors to Arobynn Hamel’s study lay at the other end of the hall, and were currently shut. But she knew he was in there. Wesley, his bodyguard, stood watch outside, dark eyes unreadable as Celaena strode toward him. Though Wesley wasn’t officially an assassin, she had no doubt that he could wield the blades and daggers strapped to his massive body with deadly skill.

She also had no doubt that Arobynn had eyes at every gate in this city. The moment she’d stepped into Rifthold, he’d been alerted that she’d at last returned. She trailed mud from her wet, filthy boots as she made her way toward the study doors—and Wesley.

It had been three months since the night Arobynn had beaten her unconscious—punishment for ruining his slave-trade agreement with the Pirate Lord, Captain Rolfe. It had been three months since he’d shipped her off to the Red Desert to learn obedience and discipline and to earn the approval of the Mute Master of the Silent Assassins.

The letter clutched in her hand was proof that she had done it. Proof that Arobynn hadn’t broken her that night.

And she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she gave it to him.

Not to mention when she told him about the three trunks of gold she’d brought with her, which were on their way up to her room at this moment. With a few words, she’d explain that her debt to him was now repaid, that she was going to walk out of the Keep and move into the new apartment she’d purchased. That she was free of him.

Celaena reached the other end of the hall, and Wesley stepped in front of the study doors. He looked about five years younger than Arobynn, and the slender scars on his face and hands suggested that the life he’d spent serving the King of the Assassins hadn’t been easy. She suspected there were more scars beneath his dark clothing—perhaps brutal ones.

“He’s busy,” said Wesley, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, ready to reach for his weapons. She might be Arobynn’s protégée, but Wesley had always made it clear that if she became a threat to his master, he wouldn’t hesitate to end her. She didn’t need to see him in action to know he’d be an interesting opponent. She supposed that was why he did his training in private—and kept his personal history a secret, too. The less she knew about him, the more advantage Wesley would have if that fight ever came. Clever, and flattering, she supposed.

“Nice to see you, too, Wesley,” she said, flashing him a smile. He tensed, but didn’t stop her as she strode past him and flung open the doors of Arobynn’s study.

The King of the Assassins was seated at his ornate desk, poring over the stack of papers before him. Without so much as a hello, Celaena strode right up to the desk and tossed the letter onto the shining wooden surface.

She opened her mouth, the words near-bursting out of her. But Arobynn merely lifted a finger, smiling faintly, and returned to his papers. Wesley shut the doors behind her.

Celaena froze. Arobynn flipped the page, rapidly scanning whatever document was in front of him, and made a vague wave with his hand. Sit.

With his attention still on the document he was reading, Arobynn picked up the Mute Master’s letter of approval and set it atop a nearby stack of papers. Celaena blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t look up at her. He just kept reading. The message was clear enough: she was to wait until he was ready. And until then, even if she screamed until her lungs burst, he wouldn’t acknowledge her existence.

So Celaena sat down.

Rain plinked against the windows of the study. Seconds passed, then minutes. Her plans for a grand speech with sweeping gestures faded into silence. Arobynn read three other documents before he even picked up the Mute Master’s letter.

And as he read it, she could only think of the last time she’d sat in this chair.

She looked at the exquisite red carpet beneath her feet. Someone had done a splendid job of getting all the blood out. How much of the blood on the carpet had been hers—and how much of it had belonged to Sam Cortland, her rival and coconspirator in the destruction of Arobynn’s slave agreement? She still didn’t know what Arobynn had done to him that night. When she’d arrived just now, she hadn’t seen Sam in the entrance hall. But then again, she hadn’t seen any of the other assassins who lived here. So maybe Sam was busy. She hoped he was busy, because that would mean he was alive.

Arobynn finally looked at her, setting aside the Mute Master’s letter as if it were nothing more than a scrap of paper. She kept her back straight and her chin upheld, even as Arobynn’s silver eyes scanned every inch of her. They lingered the longest on the narrow pink scar across the side of her neck, inches away from her jaw and ear. “Well,” Arobynn said at last, “I thought you’d be tanner.”

She almost laughed, but she kept a tight rein on her features. “Head-to-toe clothes to avoid the sun,” she explained. Her words were quieter—weaker—than she wanted. The first words she’d spoken to him since he’d beaten her into oblivion. They weren’t exactly satisfying.

“Ah,” he said, his long, elegant fingers twisting a golden ring around his forefinger.

She sucked in a breath through her nose, remembering all that she’d been burning to say to him these past few months and during the journey back to Rifthold. A few sentences, and it would be over. More than eight years with him, finished with a string of words and a mountain of gold.

She braced herself to begin, but Arobynn spoke first.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Yet again, the words vanished from her lips.

His eyes were intent on hers, and he stopped toying with his ring. “If I could take back that night, Celaena, I would.” He leaned over the edge of the desk, his hands now forming fists. The last time she’d seen those hands, they’d been smeared with her blood.

“I’m sorry,” Arobynn repeated. He was nearly twenty years her senior, and though his red hair had a few strands of silver, his face remained young. Elegant, sharp features, blazingly clear gray eyes … He might not have been the handsomest man she’d ever seen, but he was one of the most alluring.

“Every day,” he went on. “Every day since you left, I’ve gone to the temple of Kiva to pray for forgiveness.” She might have snorted at the idea of the King of the Assassins kneeling before a statue of the God of Atonement, but his words were so raw. Was it possible that he actually regretted what he had done?

“I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. I shouldn’t have sent you away.”

“Then why didn’t you retrieve me?” It was out before she had a chance to control the snap in her voice.

Arobynn’s eyes narrowed slightly, as close to a wince as he’d let himself come, she supposed. “With the time it’d take for the messengers to track you down, you probably would have been on your way home, anyway.”

She clenched her jaw. An easy excuse.

He read the ire in her eyes—and her disbelief. “Allow me to make it up to you.” He rose from his leather chair and strode around the desk. His long legs and years of training made his movements effortlessly graceful, even as he swiped a box off the edge of the table. He sank to one knee before her, his face near level with hers. She’d forgotten how tall he was.

He extended the gift to her. The box in itself was a work of art, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, but she kept her face blank as she flipped open the lid.

An emerald-and-gold brooch glittered in the gray afternoon light. It was stunning, the work of a master craftsman—and she instantly knew what dresses and tunics it would best complement. He’d bought it because he also knew her wardrobe, her tastes, everything about her. Of all the people in the world, only Arobynn knew the absolute truth.

“For you,” he said. “The first of many.” She was keenly aware of each of his movements, and braced herself as he lifted a hand, carefully bringing it to her face. He brushed a finger from her temple down to the arc of her cheekbones. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, and Celaena raised her eyes to his.

Father, brother, lover—he’d never really declared himself any of them. Certainly not the lover part, though if Celaena had been another sort of girl, and if Arobynn had raised her differently, perhaps it might have come to that. He loved her like family, yet he put her in the most dangerous positions. He nurtured and educated her, yet he’d obliterated her innocence the first time he’d made her end a life. He’d given her everything, but he’d also taken everything away. She could no sooner sort out her feelings toward the King of the Assassins than she could count the stars in the sky.

Celaena turned her face away, and Arobynn rose to his feet. He leaned against the edge of the desk, smiling faintly at her. “I’ve another gift, if you’d like it.”

All those months of daydreaming about leaving, about paying off her debts … Why couldn’t she open her mouth and just tell him?

“Benzo Doneval is coming to Rifthold,” Arobynn said. Celaena cocked her head. She’d heard of Doneval—he was an immensely powerful businessman from Melisande, a country far to the southwest, and one of Adarlan’s newer conquests.

“Why?” she asked quietly—carefully.

Arobynn’s eyes glittered. “He’s a part of a large convoy that Leighfer Bardingale is leading to the Capital. Leighfer is good friends with the former Queen of Melisande, who asked her to come here to plead their case before the King of Adarlan.” Melisande, Celaena recalled, was one of the few kingdoms whose royal family had not been executed. Instead, they’d handed over their crowns and sworn loyalty to the King of Adarlan and his conquering legions. She couldn’t tell what was worse: a quick beheading, or yielding to the king.

“Apparently,” Arobynn went on, “the convoy will attempt to demonstrate all that Melisande has to offer—culture, goods, wealth—in order to convince the king to grant them the permission and resources required to build a road. Given that the young Queen of Melisande is now a mere figurehead, I’ll admit that I’m impressed by her ambition—and her brazenness in asking the king.”

Celaena bit her lip, visualizing the map of their continent. “A road to connect Melisande to Fenharrow and Adarlan?” For years, trade with Melisande had been tricky due to its location. Bordered by near-impassable mountains and the Oakwald Forest, most of their trade had been reduced to whatever they could get out of their ports. A road might change all of that. A road could make Melisande rich—and influential.

Arobynn nodded. “The convoy will be here for a week, and they have parties and markets planned, including a gala three days from now to celebrate the Harvest Moon. Perhaps if the citizens of Rifthold fall in love with their goods, then the king will take their case seriously.”

“So what does Doneval have to do with the road?”

Arobynn shrugged. “He’s here to discuss business arrangements in Rifthold. And probably also to undermine his former wife, Leighfer. And to complete one very specific piece of business that made Leighfer want to dispatch him.”

Celaena’s brows rose. A gift, Arobynn had said.

“Doneval is traveling with some very sensitive documents,” Arobynn said so quietly that the rain lashing the window nearly drowned out his words. “Not only would you need to dispatch him, but you’d also be asked to retrieve the documents.”

“What sort of documents?”

His silver eyes brightened. “Doneval wants to set up a slave-trade business between himself and someone in Rifthold. If the road is approved and built, he wants to be the first in Melisande to profit off the import and export of slaves. The documents, apparently, contain proof that certain influential Melisanders in Adarlan are opposed to the slave trade. Considering the lengths the King of Adarlan has already gone to punish those who speak against his policies … Well, knowing who stands against him regarding the slaves—especially when it seems like they’re taking steps to help free the slaves from his grasp—is information that the king would be extremely interested in learning. Doneval and his new business partner in Rifthold plan to use that list to blackmail those people into changing their minds—into stopping their resistance and investing with him to build the slave trade in Melisande. Or, if they refuse, Leighfer believes her former husband will make sure the king gets that list of names.”

Celaena swallowed hard. Was this a peace offering, then? Some indication that Arobynn actually had changed his mind about the slave trade and forgiven her for Skull’s Bay?

But to get tangled up in this sort of thing again … “What’s Bardingale’s stake in this?” she asked carefully. “Why hire us to kill him?”

“Because Leighfer doesn’t believe in slavery, and she wants to protect the people on that list—people who are preparing to take the necessary steps to soften the blow of slavery in Melisande. And possibly even smuggle captured slaves to safety.” Arobynn spoke like he knew Bardingale personally—like they were more than business partners.

“And Doneval’s partner in Rifthold? Who is it?” She had to consider all the angles before she accepted, had to think it through.

“Leighfer doesn’t know; her sources haven’t been able to find a name in Doneval’s coded correspondences with his partner. All she’s gleaned is that Doneval will exchange the documents with his new business partner six days from now at his rented house, at some point in the day. She’s uncertain what documents his partner is bringing to the table, but she’s betting that it includes a list of important people opposed to slavery in Adarlan. Leighfer says Doneval will probably have a private room in his house to do the swap—perhaps an upstairs study or something of the sort. She knows him well enough to guarantee that.”

She was beginning to see where this was going. Doneval was practically wrapped in a ribbon for her. All she had to do was find out what time the meeting would take place, learn his defenses, and figure out a way around them. “So I’m not only to take out Doneval, but also to wait until he’s done the exchange so I can get his documents and whatever documents his partner brings to the table?” Arobynn smiled slightly. “What about his partner? Am I to dispatch this person as well?”

Arobynn’s smile became a thin line. “Since we don’t know who he’ll be dealing with, you haven’t been contracted to eliminate them. But, it’s been strongly hinted that Leighfer and her allies want the contact dead as well. They might give you a bonus for it.”

She studied the emerald brooch in her lap. “And how well will this pay?”

“Extraordinarily well.” She heard the smile in his voice, but kept her attention on the lovely green jewel. “And I won’t take a cut of it. It’s all yours.”

She raised her head at that. There was a glimmer of pleading in his eyes. Perhaps he truly was sorry for what he’d done. And perhaps he’d picked this mission just for her—to prove, in his way, that he understood why she’d freed those slaves in Skull’s Bay. “I can assume Doneval is well-guarded?”

“Very,” Arobynn said, fishing a letter from the desk behind him. “He’s waiting to do the deal until after the citywide celebrations, so he can run home the next day.”

Celaena glanced toward the ceiling, as if she could see through the wood beams and into her room on the floor above, where her trunks of gold now sat. She didn’t need the money, but if she were going to pay off her debt to Arobynn, her funds would be severely depleted. And to take this mission wouldn’t just be about killing—it would be about helping others, too. How many lives would be destroyed if she didn’t dispatch Doneval and his partner and retrieve those sensitive documents?

Arobynn approached her again, and she rose from her chair. He brushed her hair back from her face. “I missed you,” he said.

He opened his arms to her, but didn’t make a further move to embrace her. She studied his face. The Mute Master had told her that people dealt with their pain in different ways—that some chose to drown it, some chose to love it, and some chose to let it turn into rage. While she had no regrets about freeing those two hundred slaves from Skull’s Bay, she had betrayed Arobynn in doing it. Perhaps hurting her had been his way of coping with the pain of that.

And even though there was no excuse in this world for what he had done, Arobynn was all she had. The history that lay between them, dark and twisted and full of secrets, was forged by more than just gold. And if she left him, if she paid off her debts right now and never saw him again …

She took a step back, and Arobynn casually lowered his arms, not at all fazed by her rejection. “I’ll think about taking on Doneval.” It wasn’t a lie. She always took time to consider her missions—Arobynn had encouraged that from the start.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Celaena gave him another long look before she left.

Her exhaustion hit her the moment she began climbing the polished marble steps of the sweeping grand staircase. A month of hard travel—after a month of grueling training and heartache. Every time she saw the scar on her neck, or touched it, or felt her clothes brush against it, a tremor of pain went through her as she remembered the betrayal that had caused it. She’d believed Ansel was her friend—a life-friend, a friend of the heart. But Ansel’s need for revenge had been greater than anything else. Still, wherever Ansel now was, Celaena hoped that she was finally facing what had haunted her for so long.

A passing servant bowed his head, eyes averted. Everyone who worked here knew more or less who she was, and would keep her identity secret on pain of death. Not that there was much of a point to it now, given that every single one of the Silent Assassins could identify her.

Celaena took a ragged breath, running a hand through her hair. Before entering the city this morning, she’d stopped at a tavern just outside Rifthold to bathe, to wash her filthy clothes, to put on some cosmetics. She hadn’t wanted to stride into the Keep looking like a gutter rat. But she still felt dirty.

She passed one of the upstairs drawing rooms, her brows rising at the sound of a pianoforte and laughing people inside. If Arobynn had company, then why had he been in his study, ever so busy, when she arrived?

Celaena ground her teeth. So that nonsense where he’d made her wait while he finished his work …

She clenched her hands into fists and was about to whirl and stomp back down the stairs to tell Arobynn that she was leaving and that he no longer owned her, when someone stepped into the elegantly appointed hall.

Sam Cortland.

Sam’s brown eyes were wide, his body rigid. As if it took some effort on his part, he shut the door to the hall washroom and strode toward her, past the teal velvet curtains hanging on the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the framed artwork, closer and closer. She remained still, taking in every inch of him before he stopped a few feet away.

No missing limbs, no limp, no indication of anything haunting him. His chestnut hair had gotten a little longer, but it suited him. And he was tan—gloriously tan, as if he’d spent the whole summer basking in the sun. Hadn’t Arobynn punished him at all?

“You’re back,” Sam said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

She lifted her chin, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Obviously.”

He tilted his head slightly to the side. “How was the desert?”

There wasn’t a scratch on him. Of course, her face had healed, too, but … “Hot,” she said. Sam let out a breathy chuckle.

It wasn’t that she was mad at him for being uninjured. She was so relieved she could have vomited, actually. She just never imagined that seeing him today would feel so … strange. And after what had happened with Ansel, could she honestly say that she trusted him?

In the drawing room a few doors down, a woman let out a shrill giggle. How was it possible that she could have so many questions and yet so little to say?

Sam’s eyes slipped from her face to her neck, his brows drawing together for a heartbeat as he saw the thin new scar. “What happened?”

“Someone held a sword to my throat.”

His eyes darkened, but she didn’t want to explain the long, miserable story. She didn’t want to talk about Ansel, and she certainly didn’t want to talk about what had happened with Arobynn that night they’d returned from Skull’s Bay.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked quietly, taking another step closer.

It took her a moment to realize that his imagination had probably taken him to a far, far worse place when she said someone had held a blade to her throat.

“No,” she said. “No, not like that.”

“Then like what?” He was now looking more closely at her, at the almost invisible white line along her cheek—another gift from Ansel—at her hands, at everything. His lean, muscled body tensed. His chest had gotten broader, too.

“Like none of your business, that’s what,” she retorted.

“Tell me what happened,” he gritted out.

She gave him one of those simpering little smiles that she knew he hated. Things hadn’t been bad between them since Skull’s Bay, but after so many years of treating him awfully, she didn’t know how to slide back into that newfound respect and camaraderie they’d discovered for each other. “Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because,” he hissed, taking another step, “the last time I saw you, Celaena, you were unconscious on Arobynn’s carpet and so bloodied up that I couldn’t see your damn face.”

He was close enough that she could touch him now. Rain continued beating against the hall windows, a distant reminder that there was still a world around them. “Tell me,” he said.

I’ll kill you! Sam had screamed it at Arobynn as the King of the Assassins beat her. He’d roared it. In those horrible minutes, whatever bond had sprung up between her and Sam hadn’t broken. He’d switched loyalties—he’d chosen to stand by her, fight for her. If anything, that made him different from Ansel. Sam could have hurt or betrayed her a dozen times over, but he’d never jumped at the opportunity.

A half smile tugged at a corner of her lips. She’d missed him. Seeing the expression on her face, he gave her a bewildered sort of grin. She swallowed, feeling the words bubbling up through her—I missed you—but the door to the drawing room opened.

“Sam!” a dark-haired, green-eyed young woman chided, laughter on her lips. “There you—” The girl’s eyes met Celaena’s. Celaena stopped smiling as she recognized her.

A feline sort of smirk spread across the young woman’s stunning features, and she slipped out of the doorway and slunk over to them. Celaena took in each swish of her hips, the elegant angle of her hand, the exquisite dress that dipped low enough to reveal her generous bosom. “Celaena,” she cooed, and Sam eyed the two girls warily as she stopped beside him. Too close beside him for a casual acquaintance.

“Lysandra,” Celaena echoed. She’d met Lysandra when they were both ten, and in the seven years that they’d known each other, Celaena couldn’t recall a time when she didn’t want to beat in the girl’s face with a brick. Or throw her out a window. Or do any of a number of things she’d learned from Arobynn.

It didn’t help that Arobynn had spent a good deal of money assisting Lysandra in her rise from street orphan to one of the most anticipated courtesans in Rifthold’s history. He was good friends with Lysandra’s madam—and had been Lysandra’s doting benefactor for years. Lysandra and her madam remained the only courtesans aware that the girl Arobynn called his “niece” was actually his protégée. Celaena had never learned why Arobynn had told them, but whenever she complained about the risk of Lysandra revealing her identity, he seemed certain she would not. Celaena, not surprisingly, had trouble believing it; but perhaps threats from the King of the Assassins were enough to keep even the loud-mouthed Lysandra silent.

“I thought you’d been packed off to the desert,” Lysandra said, running a shrewd eye over Celaena’s clothes. Thank the Wyrd she’d bothered to change at that tavern. “Is it possible the summer passed that quickly? I guess when you’re having so much fun …”

A deadly, vicious sort of calm filled Celaena’s veins. She’d snapped once at Lysandra—when they were thirteen and Lysandra had snatched a lovely lace fan right out of Celaena’s hands. The ensuing fight had sent them tumbling down a flight of stairs. Celaena had spent a night in the Keep’s dungeon for the welts she’d left on Lysandra’s face by beating her with the fan itself.

She tried to ignore how close the girl stood to Sam. He’d always been kind to the courtesans, and they all adored him. His mother had been one of them, and had asked Arobynn—a patron of hers—to look after her son. Sam had only been six when she was murdered by a jealous client. Celaena crossed her arms. “Should I bother to ask what you’re doing here?”

Lysandra gave her a knowing smile. “Oh, Arobynn”—she purred his name like they were the most intimate of friends—“threw me a luncheon in honor of my upcoming Bidding.”

Of course he did. “He invited your future clients here?”

“Oh, no.” Lysandra giggled. “This is just for me and the girls. And Clarisse, of course.” She used her madam’s name, too, like a weapon, a word meant to crush and dominate—a word that whispered: I am more important than you; I have more influence than you; I am everything and you are nothing.

“Lovely,” Celaena replied. Sam still hadn’t said anything.

Lysandra lifted her chin, looking down her delicately freckled nose at Celaena. “My Bidding is in six days. They expect me to break all the records.”

Celaena had seen a few young courtesans go through the Bidding process—girls trained until they were seventeen, when their virginity was sold to the highest bidder.

“Sam,” Lysandra went on, putting a slender hand on his arm, “has been so helpful with making sure all the preparations are ready for my Bidding party.”

Celaena was surprised at the swiftness of her desire to rip that hand right off Lysandra’s wrist. Just because he sympathized with the courtesans didn’t mean he had to be so … friendly with them.

Sam cleared his throat, straightening. “Not that helpful. Arobynn wanted to make sure that the vendors and location were secure.”

“Important clientele must be given the best treatment,” Lysandra trilled. “I do wish I could tell you who will be in attendance, but Clarisse would kill me. It’s extraordinarily hush-hush and need-to-know.”

It was enough. One more word out of the courtesan’s mouth, and Celaena was fairly certain she’d punch Lysandra’s teeth down her throat. Celaena angled her head, her fingers curling into a fist. Sam saw the familiar gesture and pried Lysandra’s hand off his arm. “Go back to the luncheon,” he told her.

Lysandra gave Celaena another one of those smiles, which she then turned on Sam. “When are you coming back in?” Her full, red lips formed a pout.

Enough, enough, enough.

Celaena turned on her heel. “Enjoy your quality company,” she said over her shoulder.

“Celaena,” Sam said.

But she wouldn’t turn around, not even when she heard Lysandra giggle and whisper something, not even when all she wanted in the entire world was to grab her dagger and throw, as hard as she could, right toward Lysandra’s impossibly beautiful face.

She’d always hated Lysandra, she told herself. Always hated her. Her touching Sam like that, speaking to Sam like that, it didn’t change things. But …

Though Lysandra’s virginity was unquestionable—it had to be—there were plenty of other things that she could still do. Things that she might have done with Sam …

Feeling sick and furious and small, Celaena reached her bedroom and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the rain-splattered windows.

CHAPTER 2

The rain didn’t stop the next day, and Celaena awoke to a grumble of thunder and a servant setting a long, beautifully wrapped box on her dresser. She opened the gift as she drank her morning cup of tea, taking her time with the turquoise ribbon, doing her best to pretend that she wasn’t that interested in what Arobynn had sent her. None of these presents came close to earning any sort of forgiveness. But she couldn’t contain her squeal when she opened the box and found two gold hair combs glinting at her. They were exquisite, formed like sharp fish fins, each point accentuated with a sliver of sapphire.

She nearly upset her breakfast tray as she rushed from the table by the window to the rosewood vanity. With deft hands, she dragged one of the combs through her hair, sweeping it back before she nimbly flipped it into place. She quickly repeated it on the other side of her head, and when she had finished, she beamed at her reflection. Exotic, beguiling, imperious.

Arobynn might be a bastard, and he might associate with Lysandra, but he had damn good taste. Oh, it was so nice to be back in civilization, with her beautiful clothes and shoes and jewels and cosmetics and all the luxuries she’d had to spend the summer without!

Celaena examined the ends of her hair and frowned. The frown deepened when her attention shifted to her hands—to her shredded cuticles and jagged nails. She let out a low hiss, facing the windows along one wall of her ornate bedroom. It was early autumn—that meant rain usually hung around Rifthold for a good couple of weeks.

Through the low-hanging clouds and the slashing rain, she could see the rest of the capital city gleaming in the gray light. Pale stone houses stood tucked together, linked by broad avenues that stretched from the alabaster walls to the docks along the eastern quarter of the city, from the teeming city center to the jumble of crumbling buildings in the slums at the southern edge, where the Avery River curved inland. Even the emerald roofs on each building seemed cast in silver. The glass castle towered over them all, its upper turrets shrouded in mist.

The convoy from Melisande couldn’t have picked a worse time to visit. If they wanted to have street festivals, they’d find few participants willing to brave the merciless downpour.

Celaena slowly removed the combs from her hair. The convoy would arrive today, Arobynn had told her last night over a private dinner. She still hadn’t given him an answer about whether she’d take down Doneval in five days, and he hadn’t pushed her about it. He had been kind and gracious, serving her food himself, speaking softly to her like she was some frightened pet.

She glanced again at her hair and nails. A very unkempt, wild-looking pet.

She strode into her dressing room. She’d decide what to do about Doneval and his agenda later. For now, not even the rain would keep her from a little pampering.

The shop she favored for her upkeep was ecstatic to see her—and utterly horrified at the state of her hair. And nails. And her eyebrows! She couldn’t have bothered to pluck her eyebrows while she was away? Half a day later—her hair cut and shining, her nails soft and gleaming—Celaena braved the sodden city streets.

Even with the rain, people found excuses to be out and about as the giant convoy from Melisande arrived. She paused beneath the awning of a flower shop where the owner was standing on the threshold to watch the grand procession. The Melisanders snaked along the broad avenue that stretched from the western gate of the city all the way to the castle doors.

There were the usual jugglers and fire-eaters, whose jobs were made infinitely harder by the confounded rain; the dance girls whose billowing pants were sodden up to the knees; and then the line of Very Important, Very Wealthy People, who were bundled under cloaks and didn’t sit quite as tall as they’d probably imagined they would.

Celaena tucked her numbed fingers into her tunic pockets. Brightly painted covered wagons ambled past. Their hatches had all been shut against the weather—and that meant Celaena would start back to the Keep immediately.

Melisande was known for its tinkerers, for clever hands that created clever little devices. Clockwork so fine you could swear it was alive, musical instruments so clear and lovely they could shatter your heart, toys so charming you’d believe magic hadn’t vanished from the continent. If the wagons that contained those things were shut, then she had no interest in watching a parade of soaked, miserable people.

Crowds were still flocking toward the main avenue, so Celaena took to narrow, winding alleys to avoid them. She wondered if Sam was making his way to see the procession—and if Lysandra was with him. So much for Sam’s unwavering loyalty. How long had it taken after she’d gone to the desert before he and Lysandra had become dear, dear friends?

Things had been better when she relished the thought of gutting him. Apparently, Sam was just as susceptible to a pretty face as Arobynn was. She didn’t know why she’d thought he would be different. She scowled and walked faster, her freezing arms crossed over her chest as she hunched her shoulders against the rain.

Twenty minutes later, she was dripping water all over the marble floor of the Keep’s entranceway. And one minute after that, she was dripping water all over Arobynn’s study carpet as she told him that she would take on Doneval, his slave-trade blackmail documents, and whoever his co-conspirator might be.

The next morning, Celaena looked down at herself, her mouth caught between a smile and a frown. The neck-to-toe black outfit was all made from the same, dark fabric—as thick as leather, but without the sheen. It was like a suit of armor, only skintight and made from some strange cloth, not metal. She could feel the weight of her weapons where they were concealed—so neatly that even someone patting her down might think they were merely ribbing—and she swung her arms experimentally.

“Careful,” the short man in front of her said, his eyes wide. “You might take off my head.”

Behind them, Arobynn chuckled from where he leaned against the paneled wall of the training room. She hadn’t asked questions when he’d summoned her, then told her to put on the black suit and matching boots that were lined with fleece.

“When you want to unsheathe the blades,” the inventor said, taking a large step back, “it’s a downward sweep, and an extra flick of the wrist.” He demonstrated the motion with his own scrawny arm, and Celaena echoed it.

She grinned as a narrow blade shot out of a concealed flap in her forearm. Permanently attached to the suit, it was like having a short sword welded to her arm. She made the same motion with the other wrist, and the twin blade appeared. Some internal mechanism had to be responsible for it—some brilliant contraption of springs and gears. She gave a few deadly swings in the air in front of her, reveling in the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the swords. They were finely made, too. She raised her brows in admiration. “How do they go back?”

“Ah, a little more difficult,” the inventor said. “Wrist angled up, and press this little button here. It should trigger the mechanism—there you go.” She watched the blade slide back into the suit, then released and returned the blade several times.

The deal with Doneval and his partner was in four days, just long enough for her to try using the new suit. Four days was plenty to figure out his house’s defenses and learn what time the meeting would take place, especially since she already knew that it was occurring in some private study.

At last she looked at Arobynn. “How much is it?”

He pushed off the wall. “It’s a gift. As are the boots.” She knocked a toe against the tiled floor, feeling the jagged edges and grooves of the soles. Perfect for climbing. The sheepskin interior would keep her feet at body temperature, the inventor had said, even if she got them utterly soaked. She’d never even heard of a suit like this. It would completely change the way she conducted her missions. Not that she needed the suit to give her an edge. But she was Celaena Sardothien, gods be damned, so didn’t she deserve the very best equipment? With this suit, no one would question her place as Adarlan’s Assassin. Ever. And if they did … Wyrd help them.

The inventor asked to take her final measurements, though the ones Arobynn had supplied were almost perfect. She lifted her arms out as he did the measuring, asking him bland questions about his trip from Melisande and what he planned to sell here. He was a master tinkerer, he said—and specialized in crafting things that were believed to be impossible. Like a suit that was both armor and an armory, and lightweight enough to wear comfortably.

Celaena looked over her shoulder at Arobynn, who had watched her interrogation with a bemused smile. “Are you getting one made?”

“Of course. And Sam, too. Only the best for my best.” She noticed that he didn’t say “assassin”—but whatever the tinkerer thought about who they were, his face yielded no sign.

She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You never give Sam gifts.”

Arobynn shrugged, picking at his nails. “Oh, Sam will be paying for the suit. I can’t have my second-best completely vulnerable, can I?”

She hid her shock better this time. A suit like this had to cost a small fortune. Materials aside, just the hours it must have taken the tinkerer to create it … Arobynn had to have commissioned them immediately after he’d sent her to the Red Desert. Perhaps he truly felt bad about what happened. But to force Sam to buy it …

The clock chimed eleven, and Arobynn let out a long breath. “I have a meeting.” He waved a ringed hand to the tinkerer. “Give the bill to my manservant when you’re done.” The master tinkerer nodded, still measuring Celaena.

Arobynn approached her, each step as graceful as a movement of a dance. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m glad to have you back,” he murmured onto her hair. With that, he strolled from the room, whistling to himself.

The tinkerer knelt to measure the length between her knee and boot tip, for whatever purpose that had. Celaena cleared her throat, waiting until she was sure Arobynn was out of earshot. “If I were to give you a piece of Spidersilk, could you incorporate it into one of these uniforms? It’s small, so I’d just want it placed around the heart.” She used her hands to show the size of the material that she’d been given by the merchant in the desert city of Xandria.

Spidersilk was a near-mythical material made by horse-sized stygian spiders—so rare that you had to brave the spiders yourself to get it. And they didn’t trade in gold. No, they coveted things like dreams and memories and souls. The merchant she’d met had traded twenty years of his youth for a hundred yards of it. And after a long, strange conversation with him, he’d given her a few square inches of Spidersilk. A reminder, he’d said. That everything has a price.

The master tinkerer’s bushy brows rose. “I—I suppose. To the interior or the exterior? I think the interior,” he went on, answering his own question. “If I sewed it to the exterior, the iridescence might ruin the stealth of the black. But it’d turn any blade, and it’s just barely the right size to shield the heart. Oh, what I’d give for ten yards of Spidersilk! You’d be invincible, my dear.”

She smiled slowly. “As long as it guards the heart.”

She left the tinkerer in the hall. Her suit would be ready the day after tomorrow.

It didn’t surprise her when she ran into Sam on her way out. She’d spotted the dummy that bore his own suit waiting for him in the training hall. Alone with her in the hallway, he examined her suit. She still had to change out of it and bring it back downstairs to the tinkerer so he could make his final adjustments in whatever shop he’d set up while he was staying in Rifthold.

“Fancy,” Sam said. She made to put her hands on her hips, but stopped. Until she mastered the suit, she had to watch how she moved—or else she might skewer someone. “Another gift?”

“Is there a problem if it is?”

She hadn’t seen Sam at all yesterday, but, then again, she’d also made herself pretty scarce. It wasn’t that she was avoiding him; she just didn’t particularly want to see him if it meant running into Lysandra, too. But it seemed strange that he wasn’t on any mission. Most of the other assassins were away on various jobs or so busy they were hardly at home. But Sam seemed to be hanging around the Keep, or helping Lysandra and her madam.

Sam crossed his arms. His white shirt was tight enough that she could see the muscles shifting beneath. “Not at all. Though I’m a little surprised that you’re accepting his gifts. How can you forgive him after what he did?”

“Forgive him! I’m not the one cavorting with Lysandra and attending luncheons and doing … doing whatever in hell it is you spent the summer doing!”

Sam let out a low growl. “You think I actually enjoy any of that?”

“You weren’t the one sent off to the Red Desert.”

“Believe me, I would rather have been thousands of miles away.”

“I don’t believe you. How can I believe anything you say?”

His brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. None of your business. I don’t want to talk about this. And I don’t particularly want to talk to you, Sam Cortland.”

“Then go ahead,” he breathed. “Go crawl back to Arobynn’s study and talk to him. Let him buy you presents and pet your hair and offer you the best-paying missions we get. It won’t take him long to figure out the price for your forgiveness, not when—”

She shoved him. “Don’t you dare judge me. Don’t you say one more word.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “That’s fine with me. You wouldn’t listen anyway. Celaena Sardothien and Arobynn Hamel: just the two of you, inseparable, until the end of the world. The rest of us might as well be invisible.”

“That sounds an awful lot like jealousy. Especially considering you had three uninterrupted months with him this summer. What happened, hmm? You failed to convince him to make you his favorite? Found you lacking, did he?”

Sam was in her face so quickly that she fought the urge to jump back. “You know nothing about what this summer was like for me. Nothing, Celaena.”

“Good. I don’t particularly care.”

His eyes were so wide that she wondered if she’d struck him without realizing it. At last he stepped away, and she stormed past him. She halted when he spoke again. “You want to know what price I asked for forgiving Arobynn, Celaena?”

She slowly turned. With the ongoing rain, the hall was full of shadows and light. Sam stood so still that he might have been a statue. “My price was his oath that he’d never lay a hand on you again. I told him I’d forgive him in exchange for that.”

She wished he’d punched her in the gut. It would have hurt less. Not trusting herself to keep from falling to her knees with shame right there, she just stalked down the hall.

She didn’t want to speak to Sam ever again. How could she look him in the eye? He’d made Arobynn swear that for her. She didn’t know what words could convey the mixture of gratitude and guilt. Hating him had been so much easier … And it would have been far simpler if he’d blamed her for Arobynn’s punishment. She had said such cruel things to him in the hallway; how could she ever begin to apologize?

Arobynn came to her room after lunch and told her to have a dress pressed. Doneval, he’d heard, was going to be at the theater that night, and with four days until his exchange, it would be in her best interest to go.

She’d formulated a plan for stalking Doneval, but she wasn’t proud enough to refuse Arobynn’s offer to use his box at the theater for spying—to see who Doneval spoke to, who sat near him, who guarded him. And to see a classical dance performed with a full orchestra … well, she’d never turn that down. But Arobynn failed to say who would be joining them.

She found out the hard way when she climbed into Arobynn’s carriage and discovered Lysandra and Sam waiting inside. With four days until her Bidding, the young courtesan needed all the exposure she could get, Arobynn calmly explained. And Sam was there to provide additional security.

Celaena dared a glance at Sam as she slumped onto the bench beside him. He watched her, his eyes wary, shoulders tensed, as if he expected her to launch a verbal attack right there. Like she’d mock him for what he’d done. Did he really think she was that cruel? Feeling a bit sick, she dropped Sam’s stare. Lysandra just smiled at Celaena from across the carriage and linked her elbow through Arobynn’s.

CHAPTER 3

Two attendants greeted them at Arobynn’s private box, taking their sodden cloaks and exchanging them for glasses of sparkling wine. Immediately, one of Arobynn’s acquaintances popped in from the hall to say hello, and Arobynn, Sam, and Lysandra remained in the velvet-lined antechamber as they chatted. Celaena, who had no interest in seeing Lysandra test out her flirting with Arobynn’s friend, strode through the crimson curtain to take her usual seat closest to the stage.

Arobynn’s box was on the side of the cavernous hall, near enough to the center so that she had a mostly unobstructed view of the stage and the orchestra pit, but still angled enough to make her look longingly at the empty Royal Boxes. All of them occupied the coveted center position, and all of them were vacant. What a waste.

She observed the floor seats and the other boxes, taking in the glittering jewels, the silk dresses, the golden glow of sparkling wine in fluted glasses, the rumbling murmur of the mingling crowd. If there was one place where she felt the most at home, a place where she felt happiest, it was here, in this theater, with the red velvet cushions and the glass chandeliers and the gilded domed ceiling high, high above them. Had it been coincidence or planning that had led to the theater being constructed in the very heart of the city, a mere twenty-minute walk from the Assassins’ Keep? She knew it would be hard for her to adjust to her new apartment, which was nearly double the distance from the theater. A sacrifice she was willing to make—if she ever found the right moment to tell Arobynn she was paying her debt and moving out. Which she would. Soon.

She felt Arobynn’s easy, self-assured gait strutting across the carpet, and straightened as he leaned over her shoulder. “Doneval is straight ahead,” Arobynn whispered, his breath hot on her skin. “Third box in from the stage, second row of seats.”

She immediately found the man she’d been assigned to kill. He was tall and middle-aged, with pale blond hair and tan skin. Not particularly handsome, but not an eyesore, either. Not heavy, but not toned. Aside from his periwinkle tunic—which, even from this distance, looked expensive—there was nothing remarkable about him.

There were a few others in the box. A tall, elegant woman in her late twenties stood near the partition curtain, a cluster of men around her. She held herself like a noble, though no diadem glittered in her lustrous, dark hair.

“Leighfer Bardingale,” Arobynn murmured, following her gaze. Doneval’s former wife—and the one who’d hired her. “It was an arranged marriage. She wanted his wealth, and he wanted her youth. But when they failed to have children and some of his less … desirable behavior was revealed, she managed to get out of the marriage, still young, but far richer.”

It was smart of Bardingale, really. If she planned to have him assassinated, then pretending to be his friend would help keep fingers from pointing her way. Though Bardingale might have looked the part of a polite, elegant lady, Celaena knew there had to be some ice-cold steel running through her veins. And an unyielding sense of dedication to her friends and allies—not to mention to the common rights of every human being. It was hard not to immediately admire her.

“And the people around them?” Celaena asked. Through a small gap in the curtains behind Doneval, she could glimpse three towering men, all clad in dark gray—all looking like bodyguards.

“Their friends and investors. Bardingale and Doneval still have some joint businesses together. The three men in the back are his guards.”

Celaena nodded, and might have asked him some other questions had Sam and Lysandra not filed into the box behind them, bidding farewell to Arobynn’s friend. There were three seats along the balcony rail, and three seats behind them. Lysandra, to Celaena’s dismay, sat next to her as Arobynn and Sam took the rear seats.

“Oh, look at how many people are here,” Lysandra said. Her low-cut ice-blue dress did little to hide her cleavage as she craned her neck over the rail. Celaena blocked out Lysandra’s prattling as the courtesan began tossing out important names.

Celaena could sense Sam behind her, feel his gaze focused solely on the gold velvet curtains concealing the stage. She should say something to him—apologize or thank him or just … say something kind. She felt him tensing, as if he, too, wanted to say something. Somewhere in the theater, a gong began signaling the audience to take their seats.

It was now or never. She didn’t know why her heart thundered the way it did, but she didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess as she twisted to look at him. She glanced once at his clothes and then said, “You look handsome.”

His brows rose, and she swiftly turned back around in her seat, focusing hard on the curtain. He looked better than handsome, but … Well, at least she’d said one nice thing. She’d tried to be nice. Somehow, it didn’t make her feel that much better.

Celaena folded her hands in the lap of her bloodred gown. It wasn’t cut nearly as low as Lysandra’s, but with the slender sleeves and bare shoulders, she felt particularly exposed to Sam. She’d curled and swept her hair over one shoulder, certainly not to hide the scar on her neck.

Doneval lounged in his seat, eyes on the stage. How could a man who looked so bored and useless be responsible for not just the fate of several lives, but of his entire country? How could he sit in this theater and not hang his head in shame for what he was about to do to his fellow countrymen, and to whatever slaves would be caught up in it? The men around Bardingale kissed her cheeks and departed for their own boxes. Doneval’s three thugs watched the men very, very closely as they left. Not lazy, bored guards, then. Celaena frowned.

But then the chandeliers were hauled upward into the dome and dimmed, and the crowd quieted to hear the opening notes as the orchestra began playing. In the dark, it was nearly impossible to see Doneval.

Sam’s hand brushed her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin as he brought his mouth close to her ear and murmured, “You look beautiful. Though I bet you already know that.” She most certainly did.

She gave him a sidelong glare and found him grinning as he leaned back into his seat.

Suppressing her urge to smile, Celaena turned toward the stage as the music established the setting for them. A world of shadows and mist. A world where creatures and myths dwelled in the dark moments before dawn.

Celaena went still as the gold curtain drew back, and everything she knew and everything she was faded away to nothing.

The music annihilated her.

The dancing was breathtaking, yes, and the story it told was certainly lovely—a legend of a prince seeking to rescue his bride, and the cunning bird he captured to help him to do it—but the music.

Had there ever been anything more beautiful, more exquisitely painful? She clenched the arms of the seat, her fingers digging into the velvet as the music hurtled toward its finale, sweeping her away in a flood.

With each beat of the drum, each trill of the flute and blare of the horn, she felt all of it along her skin, along her bones. The music broke her apart and put her back together, only to rend her asunder again and again.

And then the climax, the compilation of all the sounds she had loved best, amplified until they echoed into eternity. As the final note swelled, a gasp broke from her, setting the tears in her eyes spilling down her face. She didn’t care who saw.

Then, silence.

The silence was the worst thing she’d ever heard. The silence brought back everything around her. Applause erupted, and she was on her feet, crying still as she clapped until her hands ached.

“Celaena, I didn’t know you had a shred of human emotion in you,” Lysandra leaned in to whisper. “And I didn’t think the performance was that good.”

Sam gripped the back of Lysandra’s chair. “Shut up, Lysandra.”

Arobynn clicked his tongue in warning, but Celaena remained clapping, even as Sam’s defense sent a faint trickle of pleasure through her. The ovation continued for a while, with the dancers emerging from the curtain again and again to bow and be showered with flowers. Celaena clapped through it all, even as her tears dried, even as the crowd began shuffling out.

When she remembered to glance at Doneval, his box was empty.

Arobynn, Sam, and Lysandra left their box, too, long before she was ready to end her applause. But after she finished clapping, Celaena remained, staring toward the curtained stage, watching the orchestra begin to pack up their instruments.

She was the last person to leave the theater.

There was another party at the Keep that night—a party for Lysandra and her madam and whatever artists and philosophers and writers Arobynn favored at that moment. Mercifully, it was confined to one of the drawing rooms, but laughter and music still filled the entirety of the second floor. On the carriage ride home, Arobynn had asked Celaena to join them, but the last thing she wanted to see was Lysandra being fawned over by Arobynn, Sam, and everyone else. So she told him that she was tired and needed to sleep.

She wasn’t tired in the least, though. Emotionally drained, perhaps, but it was only ten thirty, and the thought of taking off her gown and climbing into bed made her feel rather pathetic. She was Adarlan’s Assassin; she’d freed slaves and stolen Asterion horses and won the respect of the Mute Master. Surely she could do something better than go to bed early.

So she slipped into one of the music rooms, where it was quiet enough that she could only hear a burst of laughter every now and then. The other assassins were either at the party or off on some mission or other. Her rustling dress was the only sound as she folded back the cover of the pianoforte. She’d learned to play when she was ten—under Arobynn’s orders that she find at least one refined skill other than ending lives—and had fallen in love immediately. Though she no longer took lessons, she played whenever she could spare a few minutes.

The music from the theater still echoed in her mind. Again and again, the same cluster of notes and harmonies. She could feel them humming under the surface of her skin, beating in time with her heart. What she wouldn’t give to hear the music once more!

She played a few notes with one hand, frowned, adjusted her fingers, and tried again, clinging to the music in her mind. Slowly, the familiar melody began to sound right.

But it was only a few notes, and it was the pianoforte, not an orchestra; she pounded the keys harder, working out the riffs. It was almost there, but not quite right. She couldn’t remember the notes as perfectly as they sounded in her head. She didn’t feel them the way she’d felt them only an hour ago.

She tried again for a few minutes, but eventually slammed the lid shut and stalked from the room. She found Sam lounging against a wall in the hallway. Had he been listening to her fumble with the pianoforte this whole time?

“Close, but not quite the same, is it?” he said. She gave him a withering look and started toward her bedroom, even though she had no desire to spend the rest of the night sitting in there by herself. “It must drive you mad, not being able to get it exactly the way you remember it.” He kept pace beside her. His midnight-blue tunic brought out the golden hues in his skin.

“I was just fooling around,” she said. “I can’t be the best at everything, you know. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest of you, would it?” Down the hall, someone had started a merry tune on the instruments in the gaming room.

Sam chewed on his lip. “Why didn’t you trail Doneval after the theater? Don’t you have only four days left?” She wasn’t surprised he knew; her missions weren’t usually that secret.

She paused, still itching to hear the music once more. “Some things are more important than death.”

Sam’s eyes flickered. “I know.”

She tried not to squirm as he refused to drop her stare. “Why are you helping Lysandra?” She didn’t know why she asked it.

Sam frowned. “She’s not all that bad, you know. When she’s away from other people, she’s … better. Don’t bite off my head for saying it, but even though you taunt her about it, she didn’t choose this path for herself—like us.” He shook his head. “She just wants your attention—and acknowledgment of her existence.”

She clenched her jaw. Of course he’d spent plenty of time alone with Lysandra. And of course he’d find her sympathetic. “I don’t particularly care what she wants. You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you helping her?”

He shrugged. “Because Arobynn told me to. And since I have no desire to have my face beaten to a pulp again, I’m not going to question him.”

“He—he hurt you that badly, too?”

Sam let out a low laugh, but didn’t reply until after a servant bustled past, carrying a tray full of wine bottles. They were probably better off talking in a room where they’d be less likely to be overheard, but the idea of being utterly alone with him made her pulse pound.

“I was unconscious for a day, and dozed on and off for three more after that,” Sam said.

Celaena hissed a violent curse.

“He sent you to the Red Desert,” Sam went on, his words soft and low. “But my punishment was having to watch him beat you that night.”

“Why?” Another question she didn’t mean to ask.

He closed the distance between them, standing near enough now that she could see the fine gold-thread detailing on his tunic. “After what we went through in Skull’s Bay, you should know the answer.”

She didn’t want to know the answer, now that she thought about it. “Are you going to make a Bid for Lysandra?”

Sam burst out laughing. “Bid? Celaena, I don’t have any money. And the money that I do have is going toward paying back Arobynn. Even if I wanted to—”

“Do you want to?”

He gave her a lazy grin. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m curious whether Arobynn’s beating damaged your brain, that’s why.”

“Afraid she and I had a summer romance?” That insufferable grin was still there.

She could have raked her nails down his face. Instead, she picked another weapon. “I hope you did. I certainly enjoyed myself this summer.”

The smile faded at that. “What do you mean?”

She brushed an invisible fleck of dust off her red gown. “Let’s just say that the son of the Mute Master was far more welcoming than the other Silent Assassins.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Ilias had tried to kiss her, and she had basked in his attention, but she hadn’t wanted to start anything between them.

Sam’s face paled. Her words had struck home, but it wasn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be. Instead, the mere fact that it had affected him made her feel … feel … Oh, why had she even said anything about Ilias?

Well, she knew precisely why. Sam began to turn away, but she grabbed his arm. “Help me with Doneval,” she blurted. Not that she needed it, but this was the best she could offer him in exchange for what he’d done for her. “I’ll—I’ll give you half of the money.”

He snorted. “Keep your money. I don’t need it. Ruining yet another slave-trade agreement will be enough for me.” He studied her for a moment, his mouth quirking to the side. “You’re sure you want my help?”

“Yes,” she said. It came out a bit strangled. He searched her eyes for any sign of mockery. She hated herself for making him distrust her that much.

But he nodded at last. “Then we’ll start tomorrow. We’ll scope out his house. Unless you’ve already done that?” She shook her head. “I’ll come by your room after breakfast.”

She nodded. There was more she wanted to say to him, and she didn’t want him to go, but her throat had closed up, too full of all those unspoken words. She made to turn away.

“Celaena.” She looked back at him, her red gown sweeping around her. His eyes shone as he flashed her a crooked grin. “I missed you this summer.”

She met his stare unflinchingly, returning the smile as she said, “I hate to admit it, Sam Cortland, but I missed your sorry ass, too.”

He merely chuckled before he strode toward the party, his hands in his pockets.

CHAPTER 4

Crouched in the shadows of a gargoyle the following afternoon, Celaena shifted her numb legs and groaned softly. She usually opted to wear a mask, but with the rain, it would have limited her vision even further. Going without, though, made her feel somewhat exposed.

The rain also made the stone slick, and she took extra care while adjusting her position. Six hours. Six hours spent on this rooftop, staring across the street at the two-story house Doneval had rented for the duration of his stay. It was just off the most fashionable avenue in the city, and was enormous, as far as city homes went. Made of solid white stone and capped with green clay shingles, it looked just like any other wealthy home in the city, right down to its intricately carved windowsills and doorways. The front lawn was manicured, and even in the rain, servants bustled around the property, bringing in food, flowers, and other supplies.

That was the first thing she noticed—that people came and went all day. And there were guards everywhere. They looked closely at the faces of the servants who entered, scaring the daylights out of some of them.

There was a whisper of boots against the ledge, and Sam nimbly slipped into the shadows of the gargoyle, returning from scouting the other side of the house.

“A guard on every corner,” Celaena murmured as Sam settled down beside her. “Three at the front door, two at the gate. How many did you spot in the back?”

“One on either side of the house, three more by the stables. And they don’t look like cheap hands for hire, either. Will we take them out, or slip past them?”

“I’d prefer not to kill them,” she admitted. “But we’ll see if we can slip past when the time comes. Seems like they’re rotating every two hours. The off-duty guards go into the house.”

“Doneval’s still away?”

She nodded, inching nearer to him. Of course, it was just to absorb his warmth against the freezing rain. She tried not to notice when he pressed closer to her, too. “He hasn’t returned.”

Doneval had left nearly an hour ago, closely flanked by a hulking brute of a man who looked hewn from granite. The bodyguard inspected the carriage, examined the coachman and the footman, held the door until Doneval was ensconced inside, and then slipped in himself. It seemed like Doneval knew very well just how coveted and delicate his list of slave sympathizers was. She’d seldom seen this kind of security.

They’d already surveyed the house and grounds, noting everything from the stones of the building to what sort of latches sealed the windows to the distance between the nearby rooftops and the roof of the house itself. Even with the rain, she could see well enough into the second-story window to make out a long hallway. Some servants came out of rooms bearing sheets and blankets—bedrooms, then. Four of them. There was a supply closet near the stairwell at the center of the hall. From the light that spilled into the hallway, she knew that the main stairwell had to be open and grand, just like the one in the Assassins’ Keep. Not a chance of hiding, unless they found the servants’ passages.

They got lucky, though, when she spied a servant going into the one of the second-floor rooms, carrying a pile of the afternoon papers. A few minutes later, a maid lugged in a bucket and tools for sweeping out a fireplace, and then a manservant brought in what looked like a bottle of wine. She hadn’t seen anyone changing the linens in that room, and so they took special notice of the servants who entered and exited.

It had to be the private study that Arobynn had mentioned. Doneval probably maintained a formal study on the first floor, but if he were doing dark dealings, then moving his real business to a more hidden quarter of the house would make sense. But they still needed to figure out what time the meeting would take place. Right now, it could be at any point on the arranged day.

“There he is,” Sam hissed. Doneval’s carriage pulled up, and the hulking bodyguard got out, scouring the street for a moment before he motioned for the businessman to emerge. Celaena had a feeling that Doneval’s rush to get into the house wasn’t just about the downpour.

They ducked back into the shadows again. “Where do you suppose he went?” Sam asked.

She shrugged. His former wife’s Harvest Moon party was tonight; perhaps that had something to do with it, or the street festival that Melisande was hosting in the center of the city today. She and Sam were now crouching so close together that a toasty warmth was spreading up one side of her. “Nowhere good, I’m sure.”

Sam let out a breathy laugh, his eyes still on the house. They were silent for a few minutes. At last, he said, “So, the Mute Master’s son …”

She almost groaned.

“How close were you, exactly?” He focused on the house, though she noticed that he’d fisted his hands.

Just tell him the truth, idiot!

“Nothing happened with Ilias. It was only a bit of flirtation, but … nothing happened,” she said again.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “nothing happened with Lysandra. And nothing is going to. Ever.”

“And why, exactly, do you think I care?” It was her turn to keep her eyes fixed on the house.

He nudged her with his shoulder. “Since we’re friends now, I assumed you’d want to know.”

She was grateful that her hood concealed most of her burning-hot face. “I think I preferred it when you wanted to kill me.”

“Sometimes I think so, too. Certainly made my life more interesting. I wonder, though—if I’m helping you, does it mean I get to be your Second when you run the Assassins’ Guild? Or does it just mean that I can boast that the famed Celaena Sardothien finally finds me worthy?”

She jabbed him with an elbow. “It means you should shut up and pay attention.” They grinned at each other, and then they waited. Around sunset—which felt especially early that day, given the heavy cloud cover—the bodyguard emerged. Doneval was nowhere in sight, and the bodyguard motioned to the guards, speaking quietly to them before he strode down the street. “Off on an errand?” Celaena pondered. Sam inclined his head after the bodyguard, a suggestion that they follow. “Good idea.”

Celaena’s stiff limbs ached in protest as she slowly, carefully inched away from the gargoyle. She kept her eyes on the nearby guards, not once looking away as she grabbed the roof ledge and hauled herself up it, Sam following suit.

She wished she had the boots the master tinkerer was adjusting for her, but they wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Her black leather boots, while supple and supportive, felt a bit traitorous on the rain-slick gutter of the roof. Still, she and Sam kept low and fast as they dashed along the roof edge, tracking the hulking man in the street below. Luckily, he turned down a back alley, and the next house was close enough that she could nimbly leap onto the adjacent roof. Her boots slid, but her gloved fingers grappled onto the green stone shingles. Sam landed flawlessly beside her, and, to her surprise, she didn’t bite his head off when he grabbed the back of her cloak to help her stand.

The bodyguard continued along the alley, and they trailed on the rooftops, shadows against the growing dark. At last, he came to a broader street where the gaps between houses were too big to jump, and Celaena and Sam shimmied down a drainpipe. Their boots were soft as they hit the ground. They picked up a casual pace behind their quarry, arms linked, just two citizens of the capital on their way to somewhere, eager to get out of the rain.

It was easy to spot him in the crowd, even as they reached the main avenue of the city. People jumped out of his way, actually. Melisande’s street festival in honor of the Harvest Moon was in full swing, and people flocked to it despite the rain. Celaena and Sam followed the bodyguard for a few more blocks, down a few more alleys. The bodyguard turned to look behind him only once, but he found them leaning casually against an alley wall, merely cloaked figures taking shelter from the rain.

With all the waste brought in by the Melisande convoy, and the smaller street festivals that had already occurred, the streets and sewers were nearly overflowing with garbage. As they stalked the bodyguard, Celaena heard people talking about how the city wardens had dammed up parts of the sewers to let them fill with rainwater. Tomorrow night they were going to unleash them, causing a torrent in the sewers wild enough to sweep all the clinging trash into the Avery River. They’d done it before, apparently—if the sewers weren’t flushed out every now and then, the filth would grow stagnant and reek even more. Still, Celaena planned to be high, high above the streets by the time they unleashed those dams. There was sure to be some in-street flooding before it subsided, and she had no desire to walk through any of it.

The bodyguard eventually went into a tavern on the cusp of the crumbling slums, and they waited for him across the street. Through the cracked windows, they could see him sitting at the bar, drinking mug after mug of ale. Celaena began to wish fervently that she could be at the street festival instead.

“Well, if he has a weakness for alcohol, then perhaps that could be our way around him,” Sam observed. She nodded, but didn’t say anything. Sam looked toward the glass castle, its towers wreathed in mist. “I wonder if Bardingale and the others are having any luck convincing the king to fund their road,” he said. “I wonder why she would even want it built, since she seems so eager to make sure the slave trade stays out of Melisande for as long as possible.”

“If anything, it means she has absolute faith that we won’t fail,” Celaena said. When she didn’t say anything else, Sam fell silent. An hour passed, and the bodyguard spoke to no one, paid the entire tab with a piece of silver, and headed back to Doneval’s house. Despite the ale he’d consumed, his steps were steady, and by the time Sam and Celaena reached the house, she was almost bored to tears—not to mention shivering with cold and unsure if her numbed toes had fallen off inside her boots.

They watched from a nearby street corner as the bodyguard went up the front steps. He held a position of respect, then, if he wasn’t made to enter through the back. But even with the bits of information they’d gathered that day, when they made the twenty-minute trek across the city to the Keep, Celaena couldn’t help feeling rather useless and miserable. Even Sam was quiet as they reached their home, and merely told her that he’d see her in a few hours.

The Harvest Moon party was that night—and the deal with Doneval three days away. Considering how little they’d been able to actually glean that day, perhaps she’d have to work harder than she’d thought to find a way to take out her quarry. Maybe Arobynn’s “gift” had been more of a curse.

What a waste.

She spent an hour soaking in her bathtub, running the hot water until she was fairly certain there wasn’t any left for anyone else in the Keep. Arobynn himself had commissioned the running water outfit for the Keep, and it had cost as much as the building did, but she was forever grateful for it.

Once the ice had melted away from her bones, she slipped into the black silk dressing robe Arobynn had given her that morning—another of his presents, but still not enough that she’d forgive him anytime soon. She padded into her bedroom. A servant had started a fire, and she was about to begin dressing for the Harvest Moon party when she spotted the pile of papers on her bed.

They were tied with a red string, and her stomach fluttered as she pulled out the note placed on top.

She might have rolled her eyes had she not seen what lay before her.

Sheet music. For the performance she’d seen last night. For the notes she couldn’t get out of her mind, even a day later. She glanced again at the note. It wasn’t Arobynn’s elegant script, but Sam’s hurried scrawl. When in hell had he found the time today to get these? He must have gone out right after they’d returned.

She sank onto the bed, flipping through the pages. The show had only debuted a few weeks ago; sheet music for it wasn’t even in circulation yet. Nor would it be, until it proved itself to be a success. That could be months, even years, from now.

She couldn’t help her smile.

Despite the ongoing rain that night, the Harvest Moon party at Leighfer Bardingale’s riverfront house was so packed that Celaena hardly had room to show off her exquisite gold-and-blue dress, or the fish-fin combs she’d had positioned along the sides of her upswept hair. Everyone who was anyone in Rifthold was here. That is, everyone without royal blood, though she could have sworn she saw a few members of the nobility mingling with the bejeweled crowd.

The ballroom was enormous, its towering ceiling strung with paper lanterns of all colors and shapes and sizes. Garlands had been woven around the pillars lining one side of the room, and on the many tables, cornucopias overflowed with food and flowers. Young women in nothing more than corsets and lacy lingerie dangled from swings attached to the filigreed ceiling, and bare-chested young men with ornate ivory collars handed out wine.

Celaena had attended dozens of extravagant parties while growing up in Rifthold; she’d infiltrated functions hosted by foreign dignitaries and local nobility; she’d seen everything and anything until she thought nothing could surprise her anymore. But this party blew them all away.

There was a small orchestra accompanied by two identical-twin singers—both young women, both dark-haired, and both equipped with utterly ethereal voices. They had people swaying where they stood, their voices tugging everyone toward the packed dance floor.

With Sam flanking her, Celaena stepped from the stairs at the top of the ballroom. Arobynn kept on her left, his silver eyes scanning the crowd. They crinkled with pleasure when their hostess greeted them at the bottom of the steps. In his pewter tunic, Arobynn cut a dashing figure as he bowed over Bardingale’s hand and pressed a kiss to it.

The woman watched him with dark, cunning eyes, a gracious smile on her red lips. “Leighfer,” Arobynn crooned, half-turning to beckon to Celaena. “Allow me to introduce my niece, Dianna, and my ward, Sam.”

His niece. That was always the story, always the ruse whenever they attended events together. Sam bowed, and Celaena curtsied. The glimmer in Bardingale’s gaze said that she knew very well that Celaena was not Arobynn’s niece. Celaena tried not to frown. She’d never liked meeting clients face-to-face; it was better if they went through Arobynn.

“Charmed,” Bardingale said to her, then curtsied to Sam. “Both of them are delightful, Arobynn.” A pretty, nonsense statement, said by someone used to wielding pretty, nonsense words to get what she wanted. “Walk with me?” she asked the King of the Assassins, and Arobynn extended an elbow.

Just before they slipped into the crowd, Arobynn glanced over his shoulder and gave Celaena a rakish smile. “Try not to get into too much trouble.” Then Arobynn and the lady were swallowed up by the throng of people, leaving Sam and Celaena at the foot of the stairs.

“What now?” Sam murmured, staring after Bardingale. His dark green tunic brought up the faint flecks of emerald in his brown eyes. “Did you spot Doneval?”

They’d come here to see with whom Doneval associated, how many guards were waiting outside, and if he looked nervous. The exchange would happen three nights from now, in his upstairs study. But at what time? That was what she needed to find out more than anything. And tonight was the only chance she’d have to get close enough to him to do it.

“He’s by the third pillar,” she said, keeping her gaze on the crowd. In the shadows of the pillars lining one half of the room, little seating areas had been erected on raised platforms. They were separated by black velvet curtains—private lounges for Bardingale’s most distinguished guests. It was to one of these alcoves that she spotted Doneval making his way, his hulking bodyguard close behind. As soon as Doneval plopped into the plush cushions, four of the corset-clad girls slid into place beside him, smiles plastered on their faces.

“Doesn’t he look cozy,” Sam mused. “I wonder how much Clarisse stands to make off this party.” That explained where the girls came from. Celaena just hoped Lysandra wasn’t here.

One of the beautiful serving boys offered Doneval and the courtesans glasses of sparkling wine. The bodyguard, who stood by the curtains, sipped first before nodding to Doneval to take it. Doneval, one hand already wrapped around the bare shoulders of the girl beside him, didn’t thank either his bodyguard or the serving boy. Celaena felt her lip curl as Doneval pressed his lips to the neck of the courtesan. The girl couldn’t have been older than twenty. It didn’t surprise her at all that this man found the growing slave trade appealing—and that he was willing to destroy his opponents to make his business arrangement a success.

“I have a feeling he’s not going to get up for a while,” Celaena said, and when she turned to Sam, he was frowning. He’d always had a mixture of sorrow and sympathy for the courtesans—and such hatred for their clients. His mother’s end hadn’t been a happy one. Perhaps that was why he tolerated the insufferable Lysandra and her insipid companions.

Someone almost knocked into Celaena from behind, but she sensed the staggering man and easily sidestepped out of his path. “This is a madhouse,” she muttered, her gaze rising to the girls on the swings as they floated through the room. They arched their backs so far that it was a miracle their breasts stayed in their corsets.

“I can’t even imagine how much Bardingale spent on this party.” Sam was so close his breath caressed her cheek. Celaena was actually more curious about how much the hostess was spending on keeping Doneval distracted; clearly, no cost was too great, if she’d hired Celaena to help destroy Doneval’s trade agreement and get those documents into safe hands. But perhaps there was more to this assignment than just the slave-trade agreement and blackmailing list. Perhaps Bardingale was tired of supporting her former husband’s decadent lifestyle. Celaena couldn’t bring herself to blame her.

Even though Doneval’s cushioned alcove was meant to be private, he certainly wanted to be seen. And from the bottles of sparkling wine that had been set on the low table before him, she could tell he had no intention of getting up. A man who wanted to be approached by others—who wanted to feel powerful. He liked to be worshipped. And at a party hosted by his former wife, he had some nerve associating with those courtesans. It was petty—and cruel, if she thought about it. But what good did knowing that do her?

He rarely spoke to other men, it seemed. But who said his business partner had to be a man? Maybe it was a woman. Or a courtesan.

Doneval was now slobbering over the neck of the girl on his other side, his hand roaming along her bare thigh. But if Doneval were in league with a courtesan, why would he wait until three days from now before making the document exchange? It couldn’t be one of Clarisse’s girls. Or Clarisse herself.

“Do you think he’s going to meet with his conspirator tonight?” Sam asked.

Celaena turned to him. “No. I have a feeling that he’s not foolish enough to actually do any dealings here. At least, not with anyone except Clarisse.” Sam’s face darkened.

If Doneval enjoyed female company, well, that certainly worked in favor of her plan to get close to him, didn’t it? She began winding her way through the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Sam said, managing to keep up with her.

She shot him a look over her shoulder, nudging people out of the way as she made for the alcove. “Don’t follow me,” she said—but not harshly. “I’m going to try something. Just stay here. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

He stared at her for a heartbeat, then nodded.

Celaena took a long breath through her nose as she mounted the steps and walked into the raised alcove where Doneval sat.

CHAPTER 5

The four courtesans noticed her, but Celaena kept her eyes on Doneval, who looked up from the neck of the courtesan currently on the receiving end of his affection. His bodyguard was alert, but didn’t stop her. Fool. She forced a little smile to her lips as Doneval’s eyes roved freely. Up and down, down and up. That was why she’d opted for a lower-cut dress than usual. It made her stomach turn, but she stepped closer, only the low-lying table between her and Doneval’s sofa. She gave a low, elegant curtsy. “My lord,” she purred.

He was not a lord in any sense, but a man like that had to enjoy fancy titles, however unearned they might be.

“May I help you?” he said, taking in her dress. She was definitely more covered-up than the courtesans around him. But sometimes there was more allure in not seeing everything.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, tilting her head so that the light from the lanterns caught in her eyes and set them sparkling. She knew well enough which of her features men tended to notice—and appreciate—most. “But my uncle is a merchant, and he speaks so highly of you that I …” She now looked at the courtesans as if suddenly noticing them, as if she were a good, decent girl realizing the company he kept and trying not to become too embarrassed.

Doneval seemed to sense her discomfort and sat up, removing his hand from the thigh of the girl next to him. The courtesans all went a bit rigid, shooting daggers in her direction. She might have grinned at them had she not been so focused on her act.

“Go on, my dear,” Doneval said, his eyes now fixed on hers. Really, it was too easy.

She bit her lip, tucking her chin down—demure, shy, waiting to be plucked. “My uncle is sick tonight and couldn’t attend. He was so looking forward to meeting you, and I thought I might make an introduction on his behalf, but I’m so terribly sorry to have interrupted you.” She made to turn, counting down the heartbeats until …

“No, no—I’d be pleased to make the acquaintance. What is your name, my dear girl?”

She turned back, letting the light catch in her blue-gold eyes again. “Dianna Brackyn; my uncle is Erick Brackyn …” She glanced at the courtesans, giving her best alarmed-innocent-maiden look. “I—I truly don’t wish to interrupt you.” Doneval kept drinking her in. “Perhaps, if it would not be an inconvenience or an impertinence, we could call on you? Not tomorrow or the day after, since my uncle has some contract with the viceroy of Bellhaven to work on, but the day after that? Three days from now, is what I mean.” She made a little coo of a laugh.

“It wouldn’t be an impertinence in the least,” Doneval crooned, leaning forward. Mentioning Fenharrow’s wealthiest city—and ruler—had done the trick. “In fact, I much admire you for having the nerve to approach me. Not many men would, let alone young women.”

She almost rolled her eyes, but she just fluttered her eyelashes ever so slightly. “Thank you, my lord. What time would be convenient for you?”

“Ah,” Doneval said. “Well, I have dinner plans that night.” Not a hint of nerves, or a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. “But I am free for breakfast, or lunch,” he added with a growing smile.

She sighed dramatically. “Oh, no—I think I might have committed myself then, actually. What about tea that afternoon? You say you have dinner plans, but perhaps something before …? Or maybe we’ll just see you at the theater that night.”

He fell silent, and she wondered if he was growing suspicious. But she blinked, tucking her arms into her sides enough that her chest squeezed a bit more out of her neckline. It was a trick she’d used often enough to know it worked. “I would certainly like to have tea,” he said at last, “but I’ll also be at the theater after my dinner.”

She gave him a bright smile. “Would you like to join us in our box? My uncle has two of his contacts from the viceroy of Bellhaven’s court joining us, but I just know he’d be honored have you with us as well.”

He cocked his head, and she could practically see the cold, calculating thoughts churning behind his eyes. Come on, she thought, take the bait … Contacts with a wealthy businessman and Bellhaven’s viceroy should be enough.

“I’d be delighted,” he said, giving her a smile that reeked of trained charm.

“I’m sure you have a fine carriage to escort you to the theater, but we’d be doubly honored if you’d use ours. We could pick you up after your dinner, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid my dinner is rather late—I’d hate to make you or your uncle tardy for the theater.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be a problem. What time does your dinner begin—or end, I suppose is the better question!” A giggle. A twinkle in her eye that suggested the sort of curiosity in what a man like Doneval would be eager to show an inexperienced girl. He leaned farther forward. She wanted to claw at the skin his gaze raked over with such sensual consideration.

“The meal should be over within an hour,” he drawled, “if not sooner; only a quick meal with an old friend of mine. Why don’t you stop by the house at eight thirty?”

Her smile grew, genuine this time. Seven thirty, then. That’s when the deal would occur. How could he be that foolish, that arrogant? He deserved to die just for being so irresponsible—so easily lured by a girl who was far too young for him.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Of course.” She rattled off details about her uncle’s business and how well they’d get along, and soon she was curtsying again, giving him another long look at her cleavage before she walked away. The courtesans were still glaring at her, and she could feel Doneval’s gaze devouring her until the crowd swallowed her up. She made a show of going over to the food, keeping up the demure maiden facade, and when Doneval finally stopped watching, she let out a sigh. That had certainly gone well. She loaded a plate with food that made her mouth water—roast boar, berries and cream, warm chocolate cake …

From a few feet away, she found Leighfer Bardingale observing her, the woman’s dark eyes remarkably sad. Pitying. Or was it regret for what she had hired Celaena to do? Bardingale approached, brushing against Celaena’s skirts on her way to the buffet table, but Celaena chose not to acknowledge her. Whatever Arobynn had told the woman about her, she didn’t care to know. Though she would have liked to know what perfume Bardingale was wearing; it smelled like jasmine and vanilla.

Sam was suddenly beside her, appearing in that silent-as-death way of his. “Did you get what you needed?” He followed Celaena as she added more food to her plate. Leighfer took a few scoops of berries and a dollop of cream and disappeared back into the crowd.

Celaena grinned, glancing to the alcove where Doneval had now returned to his hired company. She deposited her plate on the table. “I certainly did. It appears he’s unavailable at seven thirty in the evening that day.”

“So we have our meeting time,” Sam said.

“Indeed we do.” She turned to him with a triumphant smirk, but Sam was now watching Doneval, his frown growing as the man continued pawing at the girls around him.

The music shifted, becoming livelier, the twins’ voices rising in a wraithlike harmony. “And now that I got what I came here for, I want to dance,” Celaena said. “So drink up, Sam Cortland. We’re not washing our hands in blood tonight.”

She danced and danced. The beautiful youths of Melisande had gathered near the platform that held the twin singers, and Celaena had gravitated toward them. Bottles of sparkling wine passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth. Celaena swigged from all of them.

Around midnight, the music changed, going from organized, elegant dances to a frenzied, sensual sound that had her clapping her hands and stomping her feet in time. The Melisanders seemed eager to writhe and fling themselves about. If there were music and movements that embodied the wildness and recklessness and immortality of youth, they were here, on this dance floor.

Doneval remained where he sat on the cushions, drinking bottle after bottle. He never once glanced in her direction; whoever he had thought Dianna Brackyn was, she was now forgotten. Good.

Sweat ran along every part of her body, but she tipped her head back, arms upraised, content to bask in the music. One of the courtesans on the swings flew by so low that their fingers brushed. The touch sent sparks shooting through her. This was more than a party: it was a performance, an orgy, and a call to worship at the altar of excess. Celaena was a willing sacrifice.

The music shifted again, a riot of pounding drums and the staccato notes of the twins. Sam kept a respectful distance—dancing alone, occasionally detangling himself from the arms of a girl who saw his beautiful face and tried to seize him for her own. Celaena tried not to smirk when she saw him politely, but firmly, telling the girl to find someone else.

Many of the older partygoers had long since left, ceding the dance floor to the young and beautiful. Celaena focused long enough to check on Doneval—and to see Arobynn sitting with Bardingale in another one of the nearby alcoves. A few others sat with them, and though glasses of wine littered their table, they all had lowered brows and tight-lipped expressions. While Doneval had come here to feast off his former wife’s fortune, it seemed like she had other thoughts on how to enjoy her party. What sort of strength had it taken to accept that assassinating her former husband was the only option left? Or was it weakness?

The clock struck three—three! How had so many hours passed? A glimmer of movement caught her eye by the towering doors atop the stairs. Four young men wearing masks stood atop the steps, surveying the crowd. It took all of two heartbeats for her to see that the dark-haired youth was their ringleader, and that the fine clothes and the masks they wore marked them as nobility. Probably nobles looking to escape a stuffy function and savor the delights of Rifthold.

The masked strangers swaggered down the steps, one of them keeping close to the dark-haired youth. That one had a sword, she noticed, and from his tensed shoulders, she could tell he wasn’t entirely pleased to be here. But the lips of the ringleader parted in a grin as he stalked into the crowd. Gods above, even with the mask obscuring half of his features, he was handsome.

She danced as she watched him, and, as if he had somehow sensed her all this time, their eyes met from across the room. She gave him a smile, then deliberately turned back toward the singers, her dancing a little more careful, a little more inviting. She found Sam frowning at her. She gave him a shrug.

It took the masked stranger a few minutes—and a knowing smile from her to suggest that she, too, knew exactly where he was—but soon she felt a hand slide around her waist.

“Some party,” the stranger whispered in her ear. She twisted to see sapphire eyes gleaming at her. “Are you from Melisande?”

She swayed with the music. “Perhaps.”

His smile grew. She itched to pull off the mask. Any young nobles who were out at this hour were certainly not here for innocent purposes. Still—who was to say that she couldn’t have some fun, too? “What’s your name?” he asked above the roar of the music.

She leaned close. “My name is Wind,” she whispered. “And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.”

He chuckled, a low, delightful sound. She was drunk, and silly, and so full of the glory of being young and alive and in the capital of the world that she could hardly contain herself.

“I have no name,” she purred. “I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be.”

He grasped her by her wrist, running a thumb along the sensitive skin underneath. “Then let me call you Mine for a dance or two.”

She grinned, but someone was suddenly between them, a tall, powerfully built person. Sam. He ripped the stranger’s hand off her wrist. “She’s spoken for,” he growled, all too close to the young man’s masked face. The stranger’s friend was behind him in an instant, his bronze eyes fixed on Sam.

Celaena grabbed Sam’s elbow. “Enough,” she warned him.

The masked stranger looked Sam up and down, then held up his hands. “My mistake,” he said, but winked at Celaena before he disappeared into the crowd, his armed friend close behind.

Celaena whirled to face Sam. “What in hell was that for?”

“You’re drunk,” he told her, so close her chest brushed his. “And he knew it, too.”

“So?” Even as she said it, someone dancing wildly crashed into her and set her reeling. Sam caught her around the waist, his hands firm on her as he kept her from falling to the ground.

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean I’m suddenly incapable of handling myself.” His hands were still on her waist.

“Let me take you home.” She glanced toward the alcoves. Doneval was passed out cold on the shoulder of a very bored-looking courtesan. Arobynn and Bardingale were still deep in their conversation.

“No,” she said. “I don’t need an escort. I’ll go home when I feel like it.” She slipped out of his grasp, slamming into the shoulder of someone behind her. The man apologized and moved away. “Besides,” Celaena said, unable to stop the words or the stupid, useless jealousy that grabbed control of her, “don’t you have Lysandra or someone equally for hire to be with?”

“I don’t want to be with Lysandra, or anyone else for hire” he said through gritted teeth. He reached for her hand. “And you’re a damned fool for not seeing it.”

She shook off his grip. “I am what I am, and I don’t particularly care what you think of me.” Maybe once he might have believed that, but now …

“Well, I care what you think of me. I care enough that I stayed at this disgusting party just for you. And I care enough that I’d attend a thousand more like it so I can spend a few hours with you when you aren’t looking at me like I’m not worth the dirt beneath your shoes.”

That made her anger stumble. She swallowed hard, her head spinning. “We have enough going on with Doneval. I don’t need to be fighting with you.” She wanted to rub her eyes, but she would have ruined the cosmetics on them. She let out a long sigh. “Can’t we just … try to enjoy ourselves right now?”

Sam shrugged, but his eyes were still dark and gleaming. “If you want to dance with that man, then go ahead.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then tell me what it’s about.”

She began wringing her fingers, then stopped herself. “Look,” she said, the music so loud it was hard to hear her own thoughts. “I—Sam, I don’t know how to be your friend yet. I don’t know if I know how to be anyone’s friend. And … Can we just talk about this tomorrow?”

He shook his head slowly, but gave her a smile, even though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. If you can remember anything tomorrow,” he said with forced lightness. She made herself smile back at him. He jerked his chin toward the dancing. “Go have fun. We’ll talk in the morning.” He stepped closer, as if he’d kiss her cheek, but then thought better of it. She couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not as he squeezed her shoulder instead.

With that, he vanished into the crowd. Celaena stared after him until a young woman pulled her into a circle of dancing girls, and the revelry took hold of her again.

The rooftop of her new apartment looked out over the Avery River, and Celaena sat on the walled edge, her legs dangling off the side. The stone beneath her was chill and damp, but the rain had stopped during the night, and fierce winds had blown the clouds away as the stars faded and the sky lightened.

The sun broke over the horizon, flooding the snaking arm of the Avery with light. It became a living band of gold.

The capital began to stir, chimneys puffing up smoke from the first of the day’s fires, fishermen calling to one another from the nearby docks, young children rushing through the streets with bundles of wood or the morning papers or buckets of water. Behind her, the glass castle shimmered in the dawn.

She hadn’t been to her new apartment since she’d returned from the desert, so she’d taken a few minutes to walk through the spacious rooms hidden on the upper floor of a fake warehouse. It was the last place anyone would expect her to purchase a home, and the warehouse itself was filled with bottles of ink—a supply no one was likely to break in to steal. This was a place that was hers and hers alone. Or it would be, as soon as she told Arobynn she was leaving. Which she’d do as soon as she finished this business with Doneval. Or sometime soon after that. Maybe.

She inhaled the damp morning air, letting it wash through her. Seated on the roof ledge, she felt wonderfully insignificant—a mere speck in the vastness of the great city. And yet all of it was hers for the taking.

Yes, the party had been delightful, but there was more to the world than that. Bigger things, more beautiful things, more real things. Her future was hers, and she had three trunks of gold hidden in her room that would solidify it. She could make of her life what she wanted.

Celaena leaned back on her hands, drinking in the awakening city. And as she watched the capital, she had the joyous feeling that the capital watched her back.

CHAPTER 6

Since she’d forgotten to do it at the party the night before, she meant to thank Sam for the music during their usual tumbling lesson after breakfast. But several of the other assassins were also in the training hall, and she had no desire to explain the gift to any of the older men. They would undoubtedly take it the wrong way. Not that they particularly cared about what she was up to; they did their best to stay out of her way, and she didn’t bother to get to know them, either. Besides, her head was throbbing thanks to staying up until dawn and drinking all that sparkling wine, so she couldn’t even think of the right words just now.

She went through her training exercises until noon, impressing their instructor with the new ways she’d learned to move while she was in the Red Desert. She felt Sam watching her from the mats a few feet away. She tried not to look at his shirtless chest, gleaming with sweat, as he took a running jump, nimbly flipping through the air and landing almost soundlessly on the ground. By the Wyrd, he was fast. He’d certainly spent the summer training, too.

“Milady,” the instructor coughed, and she turned to him, giving a glare that warned him not to comment. She slid into a backbend, then flipped out of it, her legs smoothly rising over her head and back to the floor.

She landed in a kneel, and looked up to see Sam approaching. Stopping before her, he gave the instructor a sharp jerk of his chin, and the stocky, compact man found somewhere else to be.

“He was helping me,” Celaena said. Her muscles quivered as she stood. She’d trained hard this morning, despite how little sleep she’d gotten—which had nothing to do with the fact that she hadn’t wanted to spend a moment alone with Sam in the training hall.

“He’s here every other day. I don’t think you’re missing anything vital,” Sam replied. She kept her gaze on his face. She’d seen Sam shirtless before—she’d seen all of the assassins in various stages of undress thanks to their training—but this felt different.

“So,” she said, “are we breaking into Doneval’s house tonight?” She kept her voice down. She didn’t particularly like sharing anything with her fellow assassins. Ben she’d once told everything to, but he was dead and buried. “Now that we know the meeting time, we should get into that upstairs study and get a sense of what and how many documents there are before he shares them with his partner.” Since the sun had finally decided to make an appearance, it made daytime stalking next to impossible.

He frowned, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. Lysandra has a pre-Bidding rehearsal, and I’m on guard duty. I could meet you after, if you want to wait for me.”

“No. I’ll go myself. It shouldn’t be that hard.” She started from the training room, and Sam followed her, keeping close to her side.

“It’s going to be dangerous.”

“Sam, I freed two hundred slaves in Skull’s Bay and took down Rolfe. I think I can handle this.” They reached the main entranceway of the Keep.

“And you did that with my help. Why don’t I stop by Doneval’s after I finish and see if you need me?”

She patted his shoulder, his bare skin sticky with sweat. “Do whatever you want. Though I have a feeling I’ll already be done by that point. But I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow morning,” she crooned, pausing at the foot of the grand staircase.

He grabbed her hand. “Please be careful. Just get a look at the documents and go. We’ve still got two days until the exchange; if it’s too dangerous, then we can try tomorrow. Don’t put yourself at risk.”

The doors to the Keep swung open and Sam dropped her hand as Lysandra and Clarisse came sweeping in.

Lysandra’s face was flushed, making her green eyes sparkle. “Oh, Sam,” Lysandra said, rushing toward him with outstretched hands. Celaena bristled. Sam grasped Lysandra’s slender fingers politely. From the way she drank him in—especially his shirtless torso—Celaena had no trouble believing that two days from now, as soon as her Bidding Night was over and she could be with whoever she wanted, she’d seek out Sam. And who wouldn’t?

“Another luncheon with Arobynn?” Sam asked, but Lysandra wouldn’t let go of his hands. Madam Clarisse gave Celaena a curt nod as she bustled past, heading straight for Arobynn’s study. The brothel madam and the King of the Assassins had been friends for as long as Celaena had been here, and Clarisse had never said more than a few words to her.

“Oh, no—we’re here for tea. Arobynn promised a silver tea service,” Lysandra said, her words somehow feeling tossed in Celaena’s direction. “You must join us, Sam.”

Ordinarily, Celaena would have bitten the girl’s head off for the insult. Lysandra was still grasping Sam’s hands.

As if he sensed it, Sam wriggled his fingers away. “I—” he started.

“You should go,” Celaena said. Lysandra looked between them. “I have work to do, anyway. I don’t get to be the best simply by lying on my back all day.” A cheap shot, but Lysandra’s eyes flashed. Celaena gave her a razor-sharp smile. Not that she had wanted to keep talking to Sam, or invite him to listen to her practice the music he’d gotten her, or spend any more time with him than was absolutely necessary.

He swallowed. “Have lunch with me, Celaena.”

Lysandra clicked her tongue and strode off muttering, “Why would you want to have lunch with her?”

“I’m busy,” Celaena said. It wasn’t a lie; she did still have to finalize her plan to break into the house to find out more about Doneval’s documents. She jerked her chin toward Lysandra and the sitting room beyond her. “Go enjoy yourself.”

Without wanting to see what he chose, she kept her eyes on the marble floors, the teal drapes, and the gilded ceiling as she walked to her room.

The walls of Doneval’s house were unguarded. Wherever he’d gone tonight—from the look of his clothes, probably to the theater or a party—he’d taken several of his guards with him, though she hadn’t counted his hulking bodyguard in their ranks. Perhaps the bodyguard had the night off. It still left several guards patrolling the grounds, not to mention whoever was inside.

While she loathed the thought of getting her new black suit wet, Celaena was grateful for the rain that had started again at sundown, even if it meant forgoing her usual mask in order to keep her weather-limited senses open. Thankfully, the heavy downpour also meant that the guard on the side of the house didn’t even notice her slipping right past him. The second floor was fairly high up, but the window was darkened, and the latch was easily unlocked from the outside. She’d mapped the house already. If she was correct—and she was certain she was—that window led right into the second-floor study.

Listening carefully, she waited until the guard was looking the other way, and began to climb. Her new boots found their grip on the stone, and her fingers had no trouble at all seeking out cracks. The suit was a little heavier than her usual tunic, but with the built-in blades in the gauntlets, she didn’t have the additional encumbrance of a sword on her back or daggers at her waist. There were even two knives built into her boots. This was one gift from Arobynn that she’d get a lot of use out of.

But while the rain quieted and clouded her, it also masked the sound of anyone approaching. She kept her eyes and ears wide open, but no other guards rounded the corner of the house. The additional risk was worth it. Now that she knew what time the meeting would take place, she had two days to gather as much specific information as she could about the documents, namely how many pages there were and where Doneval hid them. In a few moments, she was at the sill of the study window. The guard below didn’t even look up at the house towering behind him. Top-notch guards indeed.

One glance inside showed a darkened room—a desk littered with papers, and nothing else. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave the lists out in plain sight, but …

Celaena hauled herself onto the ledge, and the slender knife from her boot gleamed dully as it wedged into the slight gap between the window doors. Two angled jabs, a flick of her wrist, and—

She eased the window open, praying for silent hinges. One of them creaked quietly, but the other swung away without a sound. She slid into the study, boots quiet on the ornate rug. Carefully, holding her breath, she eased the windows shut again.

She sensed the attack a heartbeat before it happened.

CHAPTER 7

Celaena whirled and ducked, the other knife from her boot instantly in her hand, and the guard went down with a groan. She struck fast as an asp—a move she’d learned in the Red Desert. As she yanked the knife from his thigh, hot blood pumped onto her hand. Another guard swiped a sword at her, but she met it with both her knives before kicking him squarely in the stomach. He staggered back, yet not fast enough to escape the blow to his head that knocked him out. Another maneuver the Mute Master had taught her while she’d been studying how the desert animals moved. In the darkness of the room, she felt the reverberations as the guard’s body slammed into the floor.

But there were others, and she counted three more—three more grunting and moaning as they crumpled around her—before someone grabbed her from behind. There was a vicious thump against her head, and something wet and putrid pressed to her face, and then—

Oblivion.

Celaena awoke, but she didn’t open her eyes. She kept her breathing steady, even as she inhaled the reek of filth and the damp, rotten air around her. And she kept her ears open, even as she heard the chuckle of male voices and the gurgle of water. She kept very still, even as she felt the ropes that bound her to the chair, and the water that was already up to her calves. She was in the sewer.

Splashes approached—heavy enough that the sewer water showered her lap.

“I think that’s enough sleeping,” said a deep voice. A powerful hand slapped her cheek. Through stinging eyes, she found the hatchet-hewn face of Doneval’s bodyguard smiling at her. “Hello, lovely. Thought we didn’t notice you spying on us for days, did you? You might be good, but you’re not invisible.”

Behind him, four guards loitered by an iron door—and beyond it was another door, through which she could see a set of steps that led upward. It must be a door into the cellar of the house. Several of the older houses in Rifthold had such doors: escape routes during wars, ways to sneak in scandal-worthy guests, or merely an easy way to deposit the household’s waste. The double doors were to keep out the water—airtight, and made long ago by skilled craftsmen who had used magic to coat the thresholds with water-repellent spells.

“There are a lot of rooms to break into in this house,” the bodyguard said. “Why’d you choose the upstairs study? And where’s your friend?”

She gave him a crooked grin, all the while taking in the cavernous sewer around her. The water was rising. She didn’t want to think about what was floating in it.

“Will this be an interrogation, then torture, then death?” she asked him. “Or am I getting the order wrong?”

The man grinned right back at her. “Smart-ass. I like it.” His accent was thick, but she understood him well enough. He braced his hands on either arm of her chair. With her own arms bound behind her back, she only had the freedom to move her face. “Who sent you?”

Her heart beat wildly, but her smile didn’t fade. Withstanding torture was a lesson she’d learned long ago. “Why do you assume anyone sent me? Can’t a girl be independent?”

The wooden chair groaned under his weight as he leaned so close their noses were almost touching. She tried not to inhale his hot breath. “Why else would a little bitch like you break into this house? I don’t think you’re after jewels or gold.”

She felt her nostrils flare. But she wouldn’t make her move—not until she knew she had no chance to glean information from him.

“If you’re going to torture me,” she drawled, “then get it started. I don’t particularly enjoy the smell down here.”

The man pulled back, his grin unfaltering. “Oh, we’re not going to torture you. Do you know how many spies and thieves and assassins have tried to take down Doneval? We’re beyond asking questions. If you don’t want to talk, then fine. Don’t talk. We’ve learned how to deal with you filth.”

“Philip,” one of the guards said, pointing with his sword down the dark tunnel of the sewer. “We’ve got to go.”

“Right,” Philip said, turning back to Celaena. “See, I figure if someone was foolish enough to send you here, then you must be expendable. And I don’t think anyone will look for you when they flood the sewers, not even your friend. In fact, most people are staying off the streets right now. You capital dwellers don’t like getting your feet dirty, do you?”

Her heart pounded harder, but she didn’t break his gaze. “Too bad they won’t get all the trash,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“No,” he said, “but they’ll get you. Or at least, the river will get your remains, if the rats have left enough.” Philip patted her cheek hard enough to sting. As if the sewers had heard him, a rush of water began sounding from the darkness.

Oh, no. No.

He splashed back to the landing where the guards stood. She watched them stride out through the second door, then up the stairs, then—

“Enjoy your swim,” Philip said, and slammed the iron door shut behind him.

Darkness and water. In the moments it took for her to adjust to the dim streetlight leaking in through the grate high, high above, water gushed against her legs. It was up to her lap in an instant.

She cursed violently and wriggled hard against the ropes. But as the ropes cut into her arms, she remembered: the built-in blades. It was a testament to the inventor’s skill that Philip hadn’t found them, even though he must have searched her. Yet the bindings were almost too tight for her to release them …

She twisted her wrists, fighting for any shred of space to flick her hand. The water pooled around her waist. They must have built the sewer dam at the other end of the city; it would take a few minutes before it completely flooded this part.

The rope wouldn’t budge, but she flicked her wrist, doing as the master tinkerer had told her, again and again. Then, at last, the whine and splash of the blade as it shot out. Pain danced down the side of her hand, and she swore. She’d cut herself on the damn thing. Thankfully, it didn’t feel deep.

Immediately she started on the ropes, her arms aching while she twisted them as far as she could to angle against the bindings. They should have used iron shackles.

There was a sudden release of tension around her middle, and she almost fell face-first into the swirling black water as the rope gave. Two heartbeats later, the rest of the ropes were off, though she cringed as she plunged her hands into the filthy water to cut her feet from the chair legs.

When she stood, the water was at her thighs. And cold. Icy, icy cold. She felt things sliding against her as she splashed for the landing, struggling to keep upright in the fierce current. Rats were being swept past by the dozen, their squeals of terror barely audible over the roar of the water. By the time she reached the stone steps, the water was already pooling there, too. She tried the iron handle. It was locked. She tried to plunge one of her blades in alongside the threshold, but it bounced back. The door was sealed so tightly that nothing was getting through.

She was trapped.

Celaena looked down the length of the sewer. Rain was still pouring in from above, but the streetlights were bright enough that she could see the curved walls. There had to be some ladder to the street—there had to be.

She couldn’t see any—not near her. And the grates were so high up that she’d have to wait until the sewer filled entirely before trying her luck. But the current was so strong that she’d probably be swept away.

“Think,” she whispered. “Think, think.”

Water rose higher on the landing, lapping now at her ankles.

She kept her breathing calm. Panicking would accomplish nothing. “Think.” She scanned the sewer.

There might be a ladder, but it would be farther down. That meant braving the water—and the dark.

On her left, the water rose endlessly, rushing in from the other half of the city. She looked to her right. Even if there wasn’t a grate, she might make it to the Avery.

It was a very, very big “might.”

But it was better than waiting here to die.

Celaena sheathed her blades and plunged into the smelly, oily water. Her throat closed up, but she willed herself to keep from vomiting. She was not swimming through the entire capital’s refuse. She was not swimming through rat-infested waters. She was not going to die.

The current was faster than she expected, and she pulled against it. Grates passed overhead, ever nearer, but still too distant. And then there, on the right! Midway up the wall, several feet above the water line, was a small tunnel opening. It was made for a solitary worker. Rainwater leaked out over the lip of the tunnel—somewhere, it had to lead to the street.

She swam hard for the wall, fighting to keep the current from sweeping her past the tunnel. She hit the wall and clung to it, easing down the side. The tunnel was high up enough that she had to reach, her fingers aching as they dug into the stone. But she had a grip, and even though pain lanced through her nails, she hauled herself into the narrow passage.

It was so small inside that she had to lie flat on her belly. And it was full of mud and the gods knew what else, but there—far ahead—was a shaft of lamplight. An upward tunnel that led to the street. Behind her, the sewer continued flooding, the roaring waters near deafening. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be trapped.

With the ceiling so low, she had to keep her head down, her face nearly in the putrid mud as she stretched out her arms and pulled. Inch by inch, she dragged herself through the tunnel, staring at the light ahead.

Then the water reached the level of the tunnel. Within moments, it swept past her feet, past her legs, then her abdomen, and then her face. She crawled faster, not needing light to tell how bloody her hands were. Each bit of grit inside the cuts was like fire. Go, she thought to herself with each thrust and pull of her arms, each kick of her feet. Go, go, go. The word was the only thing that kept her from screaming. Because once she started screaming … that was when she’d concede to death.

The water in the passage was a few inches deep by the time she hit the upward tunnel, and she nearly sobbed at the sight of the ladder. It was probably fifteen feet to the surface. Through the circular holes in the large grate she spied a hovering streetlamp. She forgot the pain in her hands as she climbed the rusted ladder, willing it not to break. Water filled the tunnel bottom, swirling with debris.

She was quickly at the top, and even allowed herself a little smile as she pushed against the round grate.

But it didn’t budge.

She balanced her feet on the rickety ladder and pushed with both hands. It still didn’t move. She angled her body on the upper rung so that her back and shoulders braced against the grate and threw herself into it. Nothing. Not a groan, not a hint of metal giving way. It had to be rusted shut. She pounded against it until she felt something crack in her hand. Her vision flashed with pain, black-and-white sparks dancing, and she made sure the bone wasn’t broken before pounding again. Nothing. Nothing.

The water was close now, its muddy froth so near that she could reach down and touch it.

She threw herself into the grate one last time. It didn’t move.

If people were off the streets until the mandatory flooding was over … Rainwater poured into her mouth, her eyes, her nose. She banged against the metal, praying for anyone to hear her over the roar of the rain, for anyone to see the muddy, bloodied fingers straining upward from an ordinary city grate. The water hit her boots. She shoved her fingers through the grate holes and began screaming.

She screamed until her lungs burned, screamed for help, for anyone to hear. And then—

“Celaena?”

It was a shout, and it was close, and Celaena sobbed when she heard Sam’s voice, nearly muffled by the rain and roaring waters beneath her. He said he’d come by after helping with Lysandra’s party—he must have been on his way to or from Doneval’s house. She wriggled her fingers through the grate hole, pounding with her other hand against the grate. “HERE! In the sewer!”

She could feel the rumble of steps, and then … “Holy gods.” Sam’s face swam into view through the grate. “I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes,” he said. “Hold on.” His callused fingers latched onto the holes. She saw them go white with strain, saw his face turn red, then … He swore.

The water had reached her calves. “Get me the hell out of here.”

“Shove with me,” he breathed, and as he pulled, she pushed. The grate wouldn’t move. They tried again, and again. The water hit her knees. By whatever luck, the grate was far enough away from Doneval’s house that the guards couldn’t hear them.

“Get as high as you can,” he barked. She already was, but she didn’t say anything. She caught the flash of a knife and heard the scrape of a blade against the grate. He was trying to loosen the metal by using the blade as a lever. “Push on the other side.”

She pushed. Dark water lapped at her thighs.

The knife snapped in two.

Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Come on.”

The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said.

“I’m trying!”

“Sam,” she repeated.

“No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No!”

He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn’t going to come—not fast enough.

She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she’d struck with the gods that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.

“Please,” Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the grate, then tried to wedge another dagger under the lid. “Please don’t.”

She knew he wasn’t speaking to her.

The water hit her neck.

“Please,” Sam moaned, his fingers now touching hers. She’d have one last breath. Her last words.

“Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam,” she whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.

CHAPTER 8

“Breathe!” someone was roaring as they pounded on her chest. “Breathe!”

And just like that, her body seized, and water rushed out of her. She vomited onto the cobblestones, coughing so hard she convulsed.

“Oh, gods,” Sam moaned. Through her streaming eyes, she found him kneeling beside her, his head hung between his shoulders as he braced his palms on his knees. Behind him, two women were exchanging relieved, yet confused, expressions. One of them held a crowbar. Beside her lay the grate cover, and around them spilled water from the sewer.

She vomited again.

She took three baths in a row and ate food only with the intention of vomiting it up to clear out any trace of the vile liquid inside her. She plunged her torn, aching hands into a vat of hard liquor, biting down her scream but savoring the disinfectant burning through whatever had been in that water. Once that proved calming to her repulsion, she ordered her bathtub filled with the same liquor and submerged herself in it, too.

She’d never feel clean again. Even after her fourth bath—which had been immediately after her liquor bath—she felt like grime coated every part of her. Arobynn had cooed and fussed, but she’d ordered him out. She ordered everyone out. She’d take another two baths in the morning, she promised herself as she climbed into bed.

There was a knock on her door, and she almost barked at the person to go away, but Sam’s head popped in. The clock read past twelve, but his eyes were still alert. “You’re awake,” he said, slipping inside without so much as a nod of permission from her. Not that he needed it. He’d saved her life. She was in his eternal debt.

On the way home, he’d told her that after Lysandra’s Bidding rehearsal, he’d gone to Doneval’s house to see if she needed any help. But when he got there, the house was quiet—except for the guards who kept sniggering about something that had happened. He’d been searching the surrounding streets for any sign of her when he heard her screaming.

She looked at him from where she lay in bed. “What do you want?” Not the most gracious words to someone who had saved her life. But, hell, she was supposed to be better than him. How could she say she was the best when she’d needed Sam to rescue her? The thought made her want to hit him.

He just smiled slightly. “I wanted to see if you were finally done with all the washing. There’s no hot water left.”

She frowned. “Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”

“Do I ever expect you to apologize for anything?”

In the candlelight, the lovely panes of his face seemed velvet-smooth and inviting. “You could have let me die,” she mused. “I’m surprised you weren’t dancing with glee over the grate.”

He let out a low laugh that traveled along her limbs, warming her. “No one deserves that sort of death, Celaena. Not even you. And besides, I thought we were beyond that.”

She swallowed hard, but was unable to break his gaze. “Thank you for saving me.”

His brows rose. She’d said it once on their way back, but it had been a quick, breathless string of words. This time, it was different. Though her fingers ached—especially her broken nails—she reached for his hand. “And … And I’m sorry.” She made herself look at him, even as his features crossed into incredulity. “I’m sorry for involving you in what happened in Skull’s Bay. And for what Arobynn did to you because of it.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he somehow understood some great puzzle. He examined their linked hands, and she quickly let go.

The silence was suddenly too charged, his face too beautiful in the light. She lifted her chin and found him looking at the scar along her neck. The narrow ridge would fade—someday. “Her name was Ansel,” she said, her throat tightening. “She was my friend.” Sam slowly sat on the bed. And then the whole story came out.

Sam only asked questions when he needed clarification. The clock chimed one by the time she finished telling him about the final arrow she’d fired at Ansel, and how, even with her heart breaking, she’d given her friend an extra minute before releasing what would have been a killing shot. When she stopped speaking, Sam’s eyes were bright with sorrow and wonder.

“So, that was my summer,” she said with a shrug. “A grand adventure for Celaena Sardothien, isn’t it?”

But he merely reached out and ran his fingers down the scar on her neck, as if he could somehow erase the wound. “I’m sorry,” he said. And she knew he meant it.

“So am I,” she murmured. She shifted, suddenly aware of how little her nightgown concealed. As if he’d noticed, too, his hand dropped from her neck and he cleared his throat. “Well,” she said, “I suppose our mission just got a little more complicated.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

She shook off the blush his touch had brought to her face and gave him a slow, wicked smile. Philip had no idea who he’d tried to dispatch, or of the world of pain that was headed his way. You didn’t try to drown Adarlan’s Assassin in a sewer and get away with it. Not in a thousand lifetimes. “Because,” she said, “my list of people to kill is now one person longer.”

CHAPTER 9

She slept until noon, took the two baths she’d promised herself, and then went to Arobynn’s study. He was nursing a cup of tea as she opened the door.

“I’m surprised to see you out of the bathtub,” he said.

Telling Sam the story about her month in the Red Desert had reminded her of why she’d wanted so badly to come home this summer, and of what she had accomplished. She had no reason now to tiptoe around Arobynn—not after what he’d done, and what she’d been through. So Celaena merely smiled at the King of the Assassins as she held open the door for the servants outside. They carried in a heavy trunk. Then another. And another.

“Do I dare ask?” Arobynn massaged his temples.

The servants hurried out, and Celaena shut the door behind them. Without a word, she opened the lids of the trunks. Gold shone in the noontime sun.

She turned to Arobynn, clinging to the memory of what it had felt like to sit on the roof after the party. His face was unreadable.

“I think this covers my debt,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “And then some.”

Arobynn remained seated.

She swallowed, suddenly feeling sick. Why had she thought this was a good idea?

“I want to keep working with you,” she said carefully. He’d looked at her like this before—on the night he’d beaten her. “But you don’t own me anymore.”

His silver eyes flicked to the trunks, then to her. In a moment of silence that lasted forever, she stood still as he took her in. Then he smiled, a bit ruefully. “Can you blame me for hoping that this day would never come?”

She almost sagged with relief. “I mean it: I want to keep working with you.”

She knew in that moment that she couldn’t tell him about the apartment and that she was moving out—not right now. Small steps. Today, the debt. Perhaps in a few weeks, she could mention that she was leaving. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care that she was getting her own home.

“And I’ll always be happy to work with you” he said, but remained seated. He took a sip from his tea. “Do I want to know where that money came from?”

She became aware of the scar on her neck as she said, “The Mute Master. Payment for saving his life.”

Arobynn picked up the morning paper. “Well, allow me to extend my congratulations.” He looked at her over the top of the paper. “You’re now a free woman.”

She tried not to smile. Perhaps she wasn’t free in the entire sense of the word, but at least he wouldn’t be able to wield the debt against her anymore. That would suffice for now.

“Good luck with Doneval tomorrow night,” he added. “Let me know if you need any help.”

“As long as you don’t charge me for it.”

He didn’t return her smile, and set down the paper. “I would never do that to you.” Something like hurt flickered in his eyes.

Fighting her sudden desire to apologize, she left his study without another word.

The walk back to her bedroom was long. She’d expected to crow with glee when she gave him the money, expected to strut around the Keep. But seeing the way he’d looked at her made all that gold feel … cheap.

A glorious start to her new future.

Though Celaena never wanted to set foot in the vile sewer again, she found herself back there that afternoon. There was still a river flowing through the tunnel, but the narrow walkway alongside it was dry, even with the rain shower that was now falling on the street above them.

An hour before, Sam had just showed up at her bedroom, dressed and ready to spy on Doneval’s house. Now he crept behind her, saying nothing as they approached the iron door she remembered all too well. She set down her torch beside the door and ran her hands along the worn, rusty surface.

“We’ll have to get in this way tomorrow,” she said, her voice barely audible above the gurgle of the sewer river. “The front of the house is too well-guarded now.”

Sam traced a finger through the groove between the door and the threshold. “Aside from finding a way to haul a battering ram down here, I don’t think we’re getting through.”

She shot him a dark look. “You could try knocking.”

Sam laughed under his breath. “I’m sure the guards would appreciate that. Maybe they’d invite me in for an ale, too. That is, after they finished pumping my gut full of arrows.” He patted the firm plane of his stomach. He was wearing the suit Arobynn had forced him to buy, and she tried not to look too closely at how well it displayed his form.

“So we can’t get in this door,” she murmured, sliding her hand along it again. “Unless we figure out when the servants dump the trash.”

“Unreliable,” he countered, still studying the door. “The servants might empty the trash whenever they feel like it.”

She swore and glanced about the sewer. What a horrible place to have almost died. She certainly hoped that she’d run into Philip tomorrow. That arrogant ass wouldn’t see what was coming until she was right in front of him. He hadn’t even recognized her from the party the other night.

She smiled slowly. What better way to get back at Philip than to break in through the very door he’d revealed to her? “Then one of us will just have to sit out here for a few hours,” she whispered, still staring at the door. “With the landing outside the door, the servants need to take a few steps to reach the water.” Celaena’s smile grew. “And I’m sure that if they’re lugging a bunch of trash, they probably won’t think to look behind them.”

Sam’s teeth flashed in the torchlight as he smiled. “And they’ll be preoccupied long enough for someone to slip in and find a good hiding spot in the cellar to wait out the rest of the time until seven thirty.”

“What a surprise they’ll have tomorrow, when they find their cellar door unlocked.”

“I think that’ll be the least of their surprises tomorrow.”

She picked up her torch. “It certainly will be.” He followed her back down the sewer walkway. They’d found a grate in a shadowy alley, far enough away from the house that no one would suspect them. Unfortunately, it meant a long walk back through the sewers.

“I heard you paid off Arobynn this morning,” he said, his eyes on the dark stones beneath their feet. He still kept his voice soft. “How does it feel to be free?”

She glanced at him sidelong. “Not the way I thought it would.”

“I’m surprised he accepted the money without a fight.”

She didn’t say anything. In the dim light, Sam took a ragged breath.

“I think I might leave,” he whispered.

She almost tripped. “Leave?”

He wouldn’t look at her. “I’m going down to Eyllwe—to Banjali, to be precise.”

“For a mission?” It was common for Arobynn to send them all over the continent, but the way Sam was speaking felt … different.

“Forever,” he said.

“Why?” Her voice sounded a little shrill in her ears.

He faced her. “What do I have to tie me here? Arobynn already mentioned that it might be useful to firmly establish ourselves in the south, too.”

“Arobynn—” she seethed, fighting to keep her voice to a whisper. “You talked to Arobynn about this?”

Sam gave her a half shrug. “Casually. It’s not official.”

“But—but Banjali is a thousand miles away.”

“Yes, but Rifthold belongs to you and Arobynn. I’ll always be … an alternative.”

“I’d rather be an alternative in Rifthold than ruler of the assassins in Banjali.” She hated that she had to keep her voice so soft. She was going to splatter someone against a wall. She was going to rip down the sewer with her bare hands.

“I’m leaving at the end of the month,” he said, still calm.

“That’s two weeks away!”

“Do I have any reason why I should stay here?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed as loudly as she could while still maintaining a hushed tone. “Yes, you do.” He didn’t reply. “You can’t go.”

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Because what was the point in anything if you just disappear forever?” she hissed, splaying her arms.

“The point in what, Celaena?” How could he be so calm when she was so frantic?

“The point in Skull’s Bay, and the point in getting me that music, and the point in … the point in telling Arobynn that you’d forgive him if he never hurt me again.”

“You said you didn’t care what I thought. Or what I did. Or if I died, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I lied! And you know I lied, you stupid bastard!”

He laughed quietly. “You want to know how I spent this summer?” She went still. He ran a hand through his brown hair. “I spent every single day fighting the urge to slit Arobynn’s throat. And he knew I wanted to kill him.”

I’ll kill you! Sam had screamed at Arobynn.

“The moment I woke up after he beat me, I realized I had to leave. Because I was going to kill him if I didn’t. But I couldn’t.” He studied her face. “Not until you came back. Not until I knew you were all right—until I saw that you were safe.”

Breathing became very, very hard.

“He knew that, too,” Sam went on. “So he decided to exploit it. He didn’t recommend me for missions. Instead, he made me help Lysandra and Clarisse. He made me escort them around the city on picnics and to parties. It became a game between the two of us—how much of his horseshit I could take before I snapped. But we both knew he’d always have the winning hand. He’d always have you. Still, I spent every day this summer hoping you’d come back in one piece. More than that—I hoped you’d come back and take revenge for what he’d done to you.”

But she hadn’t. She’d come back and let Arobynn shower her with gifts.

“And now that you’re fine, Celaena, now that you’ve paid off your debt, I can’t stay in Rifthold. Not after all the things he’s done to us.

She knew it was selfish, and horrible, but she whispered, “Please don’t go.”

He let out an uneven breath. “You’ll be fine without me. You always have been.”

Maybe once, but not now. “How can I convince you to stay?”

“You can’t.”

She threw down the torch. “Do you want me to beg, is that it?”

“No—never.”

“Then tell me—”

“What more can I say?” he exploded, his whisper rough and harsh. “I’ve already told you everything—I’ve already told you that if I stay here, if I have to live with Arobynn, I’ll snap his damned neck.”

“But why? Why can’t you let it go?”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Because I love you!”

Her mouth fell open.

“I love you,” he repeated, shaking her again. “I have for years. And he hurt you and made me watch because he’s always known how I felt, too. But if I asked you to pick, you’d choose Arobynn, and I. Can’t. Take. It.”

The only sounds were their breathing, an uneven beat against the rushing of the sewer river.

“You’re a damned idiot,” she breathed. “You’re a moron and an ass and a damned idiot.” He looked like she had hit him. But she went on, and grasped both sides of his face, “Because I’d pick you.”

And then she kissed him.

CHAPTER 10

She’d never kissed anyone. And as her lips met his and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against him, she honestly had no idea why she’d waited so long. His mouth was warm and soft, his body wondrously solid against hers, his hair silken as she threaded her fingers through it. Still, she let him guide her, forced herself to remember to breathe as he eased her lips apart with his own.

When she felt the brush of his tongue against hers, she was so full of lightning she thought she might die from the rush of it. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.

She couldn’t hold him tight enough, kiss him fast enough. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat, so full of need she felt it in her core. Lower than that, actually.

She pushed him against the wall, and his hands roamed all over her back, her sides, her hips. She wanted to bask in the feeling—wanted to rip off her suit so she could feel his callused hands against her bare skin. The intensity of that desire swept her away.

She didn’t give a damn about the sewers. Or Doneval, or Philip, or Arobynn.

Sam’s lips left her mouth to travel along her neck. They grazed a spot beneath her ear and her breath hitched.

No, she didn’t give a damn about anything right now.

It was nighttime when they left the sewers, hair disheveled and mouths swollen. He wouldn’t let go of her hand during the long walk back to the Keep, and when they got there, she ordered the servants to send dinner for them to her room. Though they stayed up long into the night, doing a minimal amount of talking, their clothes remained on. Enough had happened today to change her life, and she was in no particular mood to alter yet another major thing.

But what had happened in the sewer …

Celaena lay awake that night, long after Sam had left her room, staring at nothing.

He loved her. For years. And he’d endured so much for her sake.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. She’d been nothing but horrible to him, and had repaid any kindness on his part with a sneer. And what she felt for him …

She hadn’t been in love with him for years. Until Skull’s Bay, she wouldn’t have minded killing him.

But now … No, she couldn’t think about this now. And she couldn’t think about it tomorrow, either. Because tomorrow, they’d infiltrate Doneval’s house. It was still risky, but the payoff … She couldn’t turn down that money, not now that she would be supporting herself. And she wouldn’t let the bastard Doneval get away with his slave-trade agreement, or blackmailing those who dared to stand against it.

She just prayed Sam wouldn’t get hurt.

In the silence of her bedroom, she swore an oath to the moonlight that if Sam were hurt, no force in the world would hold her back from slaughtering everyone responsible.

After lunch the next afternoon, Celaena waited in the shadows beside the sewer door to the cellar. A ways down the tunnel, Sam also waited, his black suit making him almost invisible in the darkness.

With the household lunch just ending, it was a good bet that Celaena would soon have her best chance to slip inside. She’d been waiting for an hour already, each noise whetting the edge she’d been riding since dawn. She’d have to be quick and silent and ruthless. One mistake, one shout—or even a missing servant—might ruin everything.

A servant had to come down here to deposit the trash at some point soon. She pulled a little pocket watch out of her suit. Carefully, she lit a match to glance at the face. Two o’clock. She had five hours until she needed to creep into Doneval’s study to await the seven-thirty meeting. And she was willing to bet he wouldn’t enter the study until then; a man like that would want to greet his guest at the door, to see the look on his partner’s face as he led him through the opulent halls. Suddenly, she heard the first, interior door to the sewers groan, and footsteps and grunts sounded. Her trained ear heard the noises of one servant—female. Celaena blew out the match.

She pressed herself into the wall as the lock to the outer door snapped open, and the heavy door slid against the ground. She could hear no other footsteps, save for the woman who hauled a vat of garbage onto the landing. The servant was alone. The cellar above was empty, too.

The woman, too preoccupied with depositing the metal pail of garbage, didn’t think to look to the shadows beside the door. She didn’t even pause as Celaena slipped past her. Celaena was through both doors, up the stairs, and into the cellar before she even heard the plop and splatter of the trash landing in the water.

As Celaena rushed toward the darkest corner of the vast, dimly lit cellar, she took in as many details as she could. Countless barrels of wine and shelves crammed full of food and goods from across Erilea. One staircase leading up. No other servants to be heard, save for somewhere above her. The kitchen, probably.

The outer door slammed shut, the lock sounding. But Celaena was already crouched behind a giant keg of wine. The interior door also shut and locked. Celaena slid on the smooth black mask she’d brought with her, tossing the hood of her cloak over her hair. The sound of footsteps and light panting, and then the servant reappeared at the top of the sewer stairs, empty garbage pail creaking as it swung from one hand. She walked right by, humming to herself as she mounted the stairs that led toward the kitchen.

Celaena loosed a breath when the woman’s footsteps faded, then grinned to herself. If Philip had been smart, he would have slit her throat in the sewer that night. Perhaps when she killed him, she’d let him know exactly how she got into the house.

When she was absolutely certain that the servant wasn’t returning with a second pail of garbage, Celaena hurried toward the small set of steps that led down to the sewer. Quiet as a jackrabbit in the Red Desert, she unlocked the first door, crept through, then unlocked the second. Sam wouldn’t sneak in until right before the meeting—or else someone might come down and discover him preparing the cellar for the fire that would serve as a distraction. And if someone found the two unlocked doors before then, it could just be blamed on the servant who’d dumped the trash.

Celaena carefully shut both doors, making sure the locks remained disabled, and then returned to her place in the shadows of the cellar’s vast wine collection.

Then she waited.

At seven, she left the cellar before Sam could arrive with his torches and oil. The ungodly amount of alcohol stocked inside would do the rest. She just hoped he made it out before the fire blew the cellar to bits.

She needed to be upstairs and hidden before that happened—and before the exchange was made. Once the fire started a few minutes after seven thirty, some of the guards would be called downstairs immediately, leaving Doneval and his partner with far fewer men to protect them.

The servants were eating their evening meal, and from the laughter inside the sub-level kitchen, none of them seemed aware of the deal that was to occur three flights above them. Celaena crept past the kitchen door. In her suit, cloak, and mask, she was a mere shadow on the pale stone walls. She held her breath the entire way up the servants’ narrow spiral staircase.

With her new suit, it was far easier to keep track of her weapons, and she slid a long dagger out of the hidden flap in her boot. She peered down the second floor hallway.

The wooden doors were all shut. No guards, no servants, no members of Doneval’s household. She eased a foot onto the wooden floorboards. Where the hell were the guards?

Swift and quiet as a cat, she was at the door to Doneval’s study. No light shone from beneath the door. She saw no shadows of feet, and heard no sound.

The door was locked. A minor inconvenience. She sheathed her dagger and pulled out two narrow bits of metal, wedging and jamming them into the lock until—click.

Then she was inside, door locked again, and she stared into the inky black of the interior. Frowning, Celaena fished the pocket watch out of her suit. She lit a match.

She still had enough time to look around.

Celaena flicked out the match and rushed to the curtains, shutting them tight against the night outside. Rain still plinked faintly against the covered windows. She moved to the massive oak desk in the center of the room and lit the oil lamp atop it, dimming it until only a faint blue flame gave off a flicker of light. She shuffled through the papers on the desk. Newspapers, casual letters, receipts, the household expenses …

She opened every drawer in the desk. More of the same. Where were those documents?

Swallowing her violent curse, Celaena put a fist to her mouth. She turned in place. An armchair, an armoire, a hutch … She searched the hutch and armoire, but they had nothing. Just empty papers and ink. Her ears strained for any sound of approaching guards.

She scanned the books on the bookcase, tapping her fingers across the spines, trying to hear if any were hollowed out, trying to hear if—

A floorboard creaked beneath her feet. She was down on her knees in an instant, rapping on the dark, polished wood. She knocked all around the area, until she found a hollow sound.

Carefully, heart hammering, she dug her dagger between the floorboards and wedged it upward. Papers stared back at her.

She pulled them out, replaced the floorboard, and was back at the desk a moment later, spreading the papers before her. She’d only glance at them, just to be sure she had the right documents …

Her hands trembled as she flipped through the papers, one after another. Maps with red marks in random places, charts with numbers, and names—list after list of names and locations. Cities, towns, forests, mountains, all in Melisande.

These weren’t just Melisanders opposed to slavery—these were locations for planned safe houses to smuggle slaves to freedom. This was enough information to get all these people executed or enslaved themselves.

And Doneval, that wretched bastard, was going to use this information to force those people to support the slave trade—or be turned over to the king.

Celaena gathered up the documents. She’d never let Doneval get away with this. Never.

She took a step toward the trick floorboard. Then she heard the voices.

CHAPTER 11

She had the lamp off and the curtains opened in a heartbeat, swearing silently as she tucked the documents into her suit and hid in the armoire. It would only take a few moments before Doneval and his partner found that the documents were missing. But that was all she needed—she just had to get them in here, away from the guards, long enough to take them both down. The fire would start in the cellar any minute now, hopefully distracting many of the other guards, and hopefully happening before Doneval noticed the papers were gone. She left the armoire door open a crack, peering out.

The study door unlocked and then swung open.

“Brandy?” Doneval was saying to the cloaked and hooded man who trailed in behind him.

“No,” the man said, removing his hood. He was of average height and plain, his only notable features his sun-kissed face and high cheekbones. Who was he?

“Eager to get it over with?” Doneval chuckled, but there was a hitch to his voice.

“You could say that,” the man replied coolly. He looked about the room, and Celaena didn’t dare move—or breathe—as his blue eyes passed over the armoire. “My partners know to start looking for me in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll have you out in ten. I have to be at the theater tonight, anyway. There’s a young lady I’m particularly keen to see,” Doneval said with a businessman’s charm. “I take it that your associates are prepared to act quickly and give me a response by dawn?”

“They are. But show me your documents first. I need to see what you’re offering.”

“Of course, of course,” Doneval said, drinking from the glass of brandy that he’d poured for himself. Celaena’s hands became slick and her face turned sweaty under the mask. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?” When the man didn’t respond, Doneval said with a grin, “Either way, I hope you’ve stopped by Madam Clarisse’s establishment. I’ve never seen such fine girls in all my life.”

The man gave Doneval a distinctly displeased stare. Had Celaena not been here to kill them, she might have liked the stranger.

“Not one for chitchat?” Doneval teased, setting down the brandy and walking toward the floorboard. From the slight tremble in Doneval’s hands, she could tell that his talking was all nervous babble. How had such a man come into contact with such incredibly delicate and important information?

Doneval knelt before the loose floorboard and pulled it up. He swore.

Celaena flicked the sword out of the hidden compartment in her suit and moved.

She was out of the closet before they even looked at her, and Doneval died a heartbeat after that. His blood sprayed from the spine-severing wound she gave him through the back of his neck, and the other man let out a shout. She whirled toward him, the sword flicking blood.

An explosion rocked the house, so strong that she lost her footing.

What in hell had Sam detonated down there?

That was all the man needed—he was out the study door. His speed was admirable; he moved like someone used to a lifetime of running.

She was through the threshold almost instantly. Smoke was already rising from the stairs. She turned left after the man, only to run into Philip, the bodyguard.

She rebounded away as he swiped with a sword for her face. Behind him, the man was still running, and he glanced over his shoulder once before he sprinted down the stairs.

“What have you done?” Philip spat, noticing the blood on her blade. He didn’t need to see whose face was under the mask to identify her—he must have recognized the suit.

She deployed the sword in her other arm, too. “Get the hell out of my way.” The mask made her words low and gravely—the voice of a demon, not a young woman. She slashed the swords in front of her, a deadly whine coming off of them.

“I’m going to rip you limb from limb,” Philip growled.

“Just try it.”

Philip’s face twisted in rage as he launched himself at her.

She took the first blow on her left blade, her arm aching at the impact, and Philip barely moved away fast enough to avoid her punching the right blade straight through his gut. He struck again, a clever thrust toward her ribs, but she blocked him.

He pressed both her blades. Up close, she could see his weapon was of impressive quality.

“I wanted to make this last,” Celaena hissed. “But I think it’s going to be quick. Far cleaner than the death you tried to give me.”

Philip shoved her back with a roar. “You have no idea what you’ve just done!”

She swung her swords in front of her again. “I know exactly what I’ve just done. And I know exactly what I’m about to do.”

Philip charged, but the hallway was too narrow and his blow too undisciplined. She got past his guard instantly. His blood soaked her gloved hand.

Her sword whined against bone as she whipped it out again.

Philip’s eyes went wide and he staggered back, clutching the slender wound that went up through his ribs and into his heart. “Fool,” he whispered, slumping to the ground. “Did Leighfer hire you?”

She didn’t say anything as he struggled for breath, blood bubbling from his lips.

“Doneval …,” Philip rasped, “… loved his country …” He took a wet breath, hate and grief mingling in his eyes. “You don’t know anything.” He was dead a moment later.

“Maybe,” she said as she looked down at his body. “But I knew enough just then.”

It had taken less than two minutes—that was it. She knocked out two guards as she catapulted down the stairs of the burning house and out the front door, disarming another three when she vaulted over the iron fence and into the streets of the capital.

Where in hell had the man gone?

There were no alleys from the house to the river, so he hadn’t gone left. Which meant he had gone either straight through the alley ahead of her or to the right. He wouldn’t have gone to the right—that was the main avenue of the city, where the wealthy lived. She took the alley straight ahead.

She sprinted so fast she could hardly breathe, snapping her swords back into their hidden compartment.

No one noticed her; most people were too busy rushing toward the flames now licking the sky above Doneval’s house. What had happened to Sam?

She spotted the man then, sprinting down an alley that led toward the Avery. She almost missed him, because he was around the corner and gone the next instant. He’d mentioned his partners—was he was headed to them now? Would he be that foolish?

She splashed through puddles and leapt over trash and grabbed the wall of a building as she hauled herself around the corner. Right into a dead end.

The man was trying to scale the large brick wall at the other end. The buildings surrounding them had no doors—and no windows low enough for him to reach.

Celaena popped out both of her swords as she slowed to a stalking gait.

The man made one last leap for the top of the wall, but couldn’t reach. He fell hard against the cobblestone streets. Sprawled on the ground, he twisted toward her. His eyes were bright as he pulled out a pile of papers from his worn jacket. What sort of documents had he been bringing to Doneval? Their official business contract?

“Go to hell,” he spat, and a match flared. The papers were instantly alight, and he threw them to the ground. So fast she could hardly see it, he grabbed a vial from his pocket and swallowed the contents.

She lunged toward him, but she was too late.

By the time she grabbed him, he was dead. Even with his eyes closed, the rage remained on his face. He was gone. Irrevocably gone. But for what—some business deal gone sour?

Easing him to the ground, she jumped swiftly to her feet. She stomped on the papers, extinguishing the flame in seconds. But half of them had already burned, leaving only scraps.

In the moonlight, she knelt on the damp cobblestones and picked up the remnants of the documents he’d been so willing to die for.

It wasn’t merely a trade agreement. Like the papers she had in her pocket, these contained names and numbers and locations of safe houses. But these were in Adarlan—even stretching as far north as the border with Terrasen.

She whipped her head to the body. It didn’t make any sense; why kill himself to keep this information secret, when he’d planned to share it with Doneval and use it for his own profit? Heaviness rushed through her veins. You know nothing, Philip had said.

Somehow, it suddenly felt very true. How much had Arobynn known? Philip’s words sounded in her ears again and again. It didn’t add up. Something was wrong—something was off.

No one had told her these documents would be this extensive, this damning to the people they listed. Her hands shaking, she shifted his body into a sitting position so he wouldn’t be face-first on the filthy ground. Why had he sacrificed himself to keep this information safe? Noble or not, foolish or not, she couldn’t let it go. She straightened his coat.

Then she picked up his half-destroyed documents, lit a match, and let them burn until they were nothing but ashes. It was the only thing she had to offer.

She found Sam slumped against the wall of another alley. She rushed to him where he knelt with a hand over his chest, panting heavily.

“Are you hurt?” she demanded, scanning the alley for any sign of guards. An orange glow spread behind them. She hoped the servants had gotten out of Doneval’s house in time.

“I’m fine,” Sam rasped. But in the moonlight, she could see the gash on his arm. “The guards spotted me in the cellar and shot at me.” He grabbed at the breast of his suit. “One of them hit me right in the heart. I thought I was dead, but the arrow clattered right out. It didn’t even touch my skin.”

He peeled open the gash in the front of his suit, and a glimmer of iridescence sparkled. “Spidersilk,” he murmured, his eyes wide.

Celaena smiled grimly and pulled off the mask from her face.

“No wonder this damned suit was so expensive,” Sam said, letting out a breathy laugh. She didn’t feel the need to tell him the truth. He searched her face. “It’s done, then?”

She leaned down to kiss him, a swift brush of her mouth against his.

“It’s done,” she said onto his lips.

CHAPTER 12

The rain clouds had vanished and the sun was rising when Celaena strode into Arobynn’s study and stopped in front of his desk. Wesley, Arobynn’s bodyguard, didn’t even try to stop her. He just shut the study doors behind her before resuming his sentry position in the hall outside.

“Doneval’s partner burned his own documents before I could see them,” she said to Arobynn by way of greeting. “And then poisoned himself.” She’d slipped Doneval’s documents under his bedroom door last night, but had decided to wait to explain everything to him until that morning.

Arobynn looked up from his ledger. His face was blank. “Was that before or after you torched Doneval’s house?”

She crossed her arms. “Does it make a difference?”

Arobynn looked at the window and the clear sky beyond. “I sent the documents to Leighfer this morning. Did you look through them?”

She snorted. “Of course I did. Right in between killing Doneval and fighting my way out of his house, I found the time to sit down for a cup of tea and read them.”

Arobynn still wasn’t smiling.

“I’ve never seen you leave such a mess in your wake.”

“At least people will think Doneval died in the fire.”

Arobynn slammed his hands onto his desk. “Without an identifiable body, how can anyone be sure he’s dead?”

She refused to flinch, refused to back down. “He’s dead.”

Arobynn’s silver eyes hardened. “You won’t be paid for this. I know for certain Leighfer won’t pay you. She wanted a body and both documents. You only gave me one of the three.”

She felt her nostrils flare. “That’s fine. Bardingale’s allies are safe now, anyway. And the trade agreement isn’t happening.” She couldn’t mention that she hadn’t even seen a trade agreement document among the papers—not without revealing that she’d read the documents.

Arobynn let out a low laugh. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

Celaena’s throat tightened.

Arobynn leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I expected more from you. All the years I spent training you, and you couldn’t piece together what was happening right before your eyes.”

“Just spit it out,” she growled.

“There was no trade agreement,” Arobynn said, triumph lighting his silver eyes. “At least, not between Doneval and his source in Rifthold. The real meetings about the slave-trade negotiations have been going on in the glass castle—between the king and Leighfer. It was a key point of persuasion in convincing him to let them build their road.”

She kept her face blank, kept herself from flinching. The man who poisoned himself—he hadn’t been there to trade documents to sell out those opposed to slavery. He and Doneval had been working to—

Doneval loves his country, Philip had said.

Doneval had been working to set up a system of safe houses and form an alliance of people against slavery across the empire. Doneval, bad habits or not, had been working to help the slaves.

And she’d killed him.

Worse than that, she’d given the documents over to Bardingale—who didn’t want to stop slavery at all. No, she wanted to profit from it and use her new road to do it. And she and Arobynn had concocted the perfect lie to get Celaena to cooperate.

Arobynn was still smiling. “Leighfer has already seen to it that Doneval’s documents are secured. If it’ll ease your conscience, she said she won’t give them to the king—not yet. Not until she’s had a chance to speak to the people on this list and … persuade them to support her business endeavors. But if they don’t, perhaps those documents will find their way into the glass castle after all.”

Celaena fought to keep from trembling. “Is this punishment for Skull’s Bay?”

Arobynn studied her. “While I might regret beating you, Celaena, you did ruin a deal that would have been extremely profitable for us.” “Us,” like she was a part of this disgusting mess. “You might be free of me, but you shouldn’t forget who I am. What I’m capable of.”

“As long as I live,” she said, “I’ll never forget that.” She turned on her heel, striding for the door, but stopped.

“Yesterday,” she said, “I sold Kasida to Leighfer Bardingale.” She’d visited Bardingale’s estate in the morning of the day she was set to infiltrate Doneval’s house. The woman had been more than happy to purchase the Asterion horse. She hadn’t once mentioned her former husband’s impending death.

And last night, after Celaena had killed Doneval, she’d spent a while staring at the signature at the end of the transfer of ownership receipt, so stupidly relieved that Kasida was going to a good woman like Bardingale.

“And?” Arobynn asked. “Why should I care about your horse?”

Celaena looked at him long and hard. Always power games, always deceit and pain. “The money is on its way to your vault at the bank.”

He said nothing.

“As of this moment, Sam’s debt to you is paid,” she said, a shred of victory shining through her growing shame and misery. “From right now until forever, he’s a free man.”

Arobynn stared back, then shrugged. “I suppose that’s a good thing.” She felt the final blow coming, and she knew she should run, but she stood like an idiot and listened as he said, “Because I spent all the money you gave me when I was at Lysandra’s Bidding last night. My vault feels a little empty because of it.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

The money she had sacrificed so much to get …

He’d used it to win Lysandra’s Bidding.

“I’m moving out,” she whispered. He just watched her, his cruel, clever mouth forming a slight smile. “I’ve purchased an apartment, and I’m moving there. Today.”

Arobynn’s smile grew. “Do come back and visit us some time, Celaena.”

She had to bite her lip to keep it from wobbling. “Why did you do it?”

Arobynn shrugged again. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy Lysandra after all these years of investing in her career? And why do you care what I do with my own money? From what I’ve heard, you have Sam now. Both of you are free of me.”

Of course he’d found out already. And of course he’d try to make this about her—try to make it her fault. Why shower her with gifts only to do this? Why deceive her about Doneval and then torture her with it? Why had he saved her life nine years ago just to treat her this way?

He’d spent her money on a person he knew she hated. To belittle her. Months ago, it would have worked; that sort of betrayal would have devastated her. It still hurt, but now, with Doneval and Philip and others dead by her hand, with those documents now in Bardingale’s possession, and with Sam steadfastly at her side … Arobynn’s petty, vicious parting shot had narrowly missed the mark.

“Don’t come looking for me for a good, long while,” she said. “Because I might kill you if I see you before then, Arobynn.”

He waved a hand at her. “I look forward to the fight.”

She left. As she strode through his study doors, she almost slammed into the three tall men who were walking in. They all took one look at her face and then muttered apologies. She ignored them, and ignored Wesley’s dark stare as she strode past him. Arobynn’s business was his own. She had her own life now.

Her boot heels clicked against the marble floor of the grand entrance. Someone yawned from across the space, and Celaena found Lysandra leaning against the banister of the staircase. She was wearing a white silk nightgown that barely covered her more private areas.

“You’ve probably already heard, but I went for a record price,” Lysandra purred, stretching out the beautiful lines of her body. “Thank you for that; rest assured that your gold went a long, long way.”

Celaena froze and slowly turned. Lysandra smirked at her.

Fast as lightning, Celaena hurled a dagger.

The blade imbedded itself into the wooden railing a hair’s breadth from Lysandra’s head.

Lysandra began screaming, but Celaena just walked out of the front doors, across the lawn of the Keep, and kept walking until the capital swallowed her up.

Celaena sat on the edge of her roof, looking out across the city. The convoy from Melisande had already left, taking the last of the rain clouds with them. Some of them wore black to mourn Doneval’s death. Leighfer Bardingale had ridden Kasida, prancing down the main avenue. Unlike those in mourning colors, the lady had been dressed in saffron yellow—and was smiling broadly. Of course, it was just because the King of Adarlan had agreed to give them the funds and resources to build their road. Celaena had half a mind to go after her—to get those documents back and repay Bardingale for her deceit. And take back Kasida while she was at it, too.

But she didn’t. She’d been fooled and had lost—badly. She didn’t want to be a part of this tangled web. Not when Arobynn had made it perfectly clear that she could never win.

To distract her from that miserable thought, Celaena had then spent the whole day sending servants between the Keep and her apartment, fetching all the clothes and books and jewelry that now belonged to her and her alone. The late afternoon light shifted into a deep gold, setting all the green rooftops glowing.

“I thought you might be up here,” Sam said, striding across the flat roof to where she sat atop the wall that lined the edge. He surveyed the city. “Some view; I can see why you decided to move.”

She smiled slightly, turning to look at him over her shoulder. He came to stand behind her, and reached out a tentative hand to run through her hair. She leaned into the touch. “I heard what he did—about both Doneval and Lysandra,” Sam murmured. “I never imagined he’d sink that low—or use your money like that. I’m sorry.”

“It was what I needed.” She watched the city again. “It was what I needed to make me tell him I was moving out.”

Sam gave a nod of approval. “I’ve just sort of … left my belongings in your main room. Is that all right?”

She nodded. “We’ll find space for it later.”

Sam fell silent. “So, we’re free,” he said at last.

She turned fully to look at him. His brown eyes were vivid.

“I also heard that you paid off my debt,” he said, his voice strained. “You—you sold your Asterion horse to do it.”

“I had no choice.” She pivoted from her spot on the roof and stood. “I’d never leave you shackled to him while I walked away.”

“Celaena.” He said her name like a caress, slipping a hand around her waist. He pressed his forehead against hers. “How can I ever repay you?”

She closed her eyes. “You don’t have to.”

He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you,” he breathed against her mouth. “And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Forever.”

Celaena put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, giving him her silent reply.

Beyond them, the sun set over the capital, turning the world into crimson light and shadows.