Celaena had her weekly dancing lesson with Madame Florine, who also trained all of the dancers at the Royal Theater, so she left Sam to finish his scouting as she headed to the old woman’s private studio.
Four hours later, sweaty and aching and utterly spent, Celaena made her way back home across the city. She’d known the stern Madame Florine since she was a child: she taught all of Arobynn’s assassins the latest popular dances. But Celaena liked to take extra lessons because of the flexibility and grace the classical dances instilled. She’d always suspected the terse instructor had barely tolerated her—but to her surprise, Madame Florine had refused to take any pay for lessons now that she’d left Arobynn.
She’d have to find another dance instructor once they moved. More than that, a studio with a decent pianoforte player.
And the city would have to have a library, too. A great, wonderful library. Or a bookshop with a knowledgeable owner who could make sure her thirst for books was always sated.
And a good clothier. And perfumer. And jeweler. And confectionary.
As she walked up the wooden steps to her apartment above the warehouse, her feet dragged. She blamed it on the lesson. Madame Florine was a brutal taskmistress—she didn’t accept limp wrists or sloppy posture or anything except Celaena’s very best. Though she did always turn a blind eye to the last twenty minutes of their lesson, when she allowed Celaena to tell the student on the pianoforte to play her favorite music and set herself loose, dancing with wild abandon. And now that Celaena had no pianoforte of her own in the apartment, Madame Florine even let her remain after the lesson to practice.
Celaena found herself atop the stair landing, staring at the silvery-green door.
She could leave Rifthold. If it meant being free from Arobynn, she could leave behind all these things she loved. Other cities on the continent had libraries and bookshops and fine outfitters. Perhaps not as wonderful as Rifthold’s, and perhaps the city’s heart wouldn’t beat with the familiar rhythm that she adored, but … for Sam, she could leave.
Sighing, Celaena unlocked the door and walked into the apartment.
Arobynn Hamel was sitting on the couch.
“Hello, darling,” he said, and smiled.
Chapter Four
Alone in the kitchen, Celaena poured herself a cup of tea, trying to keep her hands from shaking. How had he found her apartment? He’d probably gotten the information from the servants who had helped bring her things over here. To find him here, having broken into her home … How long had he been sitting inside? Had he gone through her things?
She poured another cup of tea for Arobynn. Cups and saucers in hand, she walked back into the living room. He had his legs crossed, one arm sprawled across the back of the sofa, and seemed to have made himself quite at home.
She said nothing as she gave him the cup and then took a seat in one of the armchairs. The hearth was dark, and the day had been warm enough that Sam had left one of the living room windows open. A briny breeze off the Avery flowed into the apartment, rustling the crimson velvet curtains and teasing through her hair. She’d miss that smell, too.
Arobynn took a sip, then peered into his teacup to look at the amber liquid inside. “Who can I thank for the impeccable taste in tea?”
“Me. But you already know that.”
“Hmm.” Arobynn took another sip. “You know, I did know that.” The afternoon light caught in his gray eyes, turning them to quicksilver. “What I don’t know is why you and Sam think it’s a good idea to dispatch Ioan Jayne and Rourke Farran.”
Of course he knew. “It’s none of your business. Our client wanted to operate outside of the Guild, and now that I’ve transferred the money to your account, Sam and I are no longer a part of the Guild.”
“Ioan Jayne,” Arobynn repeated, as if she somehow didn’t know who he was. “Ioan Jayne. Are you insane?”
She clenched her jaw. “I don’t see why I should trust any of your advice.”
“Even I wouldn’t take on Jayne.” Arobynn’s gaze burned. “And I’m saying that as someone who has spent years thinking of ways to put that man in a grave.”
“I’m not playing another one of your mind games.” She set down her tea and rose from her seat. “Get out of my house.”
Arobynn just stared up at her as if she were a sullen child. “Jayne is the undisputed Crime Lord in Rifthold for a reason. And Farran is his Second for a damn good reason, too. You might be excellent, Celaena, but you’re not invincible.”
She crossed her arms. “Maybe you’re trying to dissuade me because you’re worried that when I kill him, I will have truly surpassed you.”
Arobynn shot to his feet, towering over her. “The reason I’m trying to dissuade you, you stupid, ungrateful girl, is because Jayne and Farran are lethal. If a client offered me the glass castle itself, I wouldn’t touch an offer like that!”
She felt her nostrils flare. “After all that you’ve done to me, how can you expect me to believe a word that comes out of your mouth?” Her hand had started drifting toward the dagger at her waist. Arobynn’s eyes remained on her face, but he was aware—he knew every movement her hands made and didn’t have to look at her to track them. “Get out of my house,” she growled.
Arobynn gave her a half smile and looked around the apartment with deliberate care. “Tell me something, Celaena: do you trust Sam?”
“What sort of a question is that?”
Arobynn casually slid his hands into the pockets of his silver tunic. “Have you told him the truth about where you came from? I have a feeling that’s something he’d like to know. Perhaps before he dedicates his life to you.”
She focused on keeping her breathing even, and pointed at the door again. “Go.”
Arobynn shrugged, waving a hand as if to dismiss the questions he’d raised, and walked toward the front door. She watched his every move, took in every step and shift of his shoulders, noted what he looked at. He reached for the brass doorknob, but turned to her. His eyes—those silver eyes that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life—were bright.
“No matter what I have done, I really do love you, Celaena.”
The word hit her like a stone to the head. He’d never said that word to her before. Ever.
A long silence fell between them.
Arobynn’s neck shifted as he swallowed. “I do the things that I do because I’m scared … and because I don’t know how to express what I feel.” He said it so quietly that she barely heard it. “I did all of those things because I was angry with you for picking Sam.”
Was it the King of the Assassins who spoke, or the father, or the lover who had never manifested himself?
Arobynn’s carefully cultivated mask fell, and the wound she’d given him flickered in those magnificent eyes. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Stay in Rifthold.”
She swallowed, and found it particularly hard to do so. “I’m going.”
“No,” he said softly. “Don’t go.”
No.
That was what she’d said to him that night he’d beaten her, in the moment before he’d struck her, when she thought he was going to hurt Sam instead. And then he’d beaten her so badly she’d been knocked unconscious. Then he’d beaten Sam, too.
Don’t.
That was what Ansel had said to her in the desert, when Celaena had pressed the sword into the back of her neck, when the agony of Ansel’s betrayal had been almost enough to make Celaena kill the girl she’d called a friend. But that betrayal still paled in comparison to what Arobynn had done to her when he’d tricked her into killing Doneval, a man who could have freed countless slaves.
He was using words as chains to bind her again. He’d had so many chances over the years to tell her that he loved her—he’d known how much she’d craved those words. But he hadn’t spoken them until he needed to use them as weapons. And now that she had Sam, Sam who said those words without expecting anything in return, Sam who loved her for reasons she still didn�
�t understand …
Celaena tilted her head to the side, the only warning she gave that she was still ready to attack him. “Get out of my house.”
Arobynn just looked at her one final time, nodded slowly, and left.
The Black Cygnet tavern was packed wall-to-wall, as it was most nights. Seated with Sam at a table in the middle of the busy room, Celaena didn’t particularly feel like eating the beef stew in front of her. Or like talking, even though Sam had told her all about the information he’d gathered on Farran and Jayne. She hadn’t mentioned Arobynn’s surprise visit.
A cluster of giggling young women sat nearby, tittering about how the Crown Prince was gone on a holiday to the Sorian coast, and how they wished they could join the prince and his dashing friends, and on and on until Celaena contemplated chucking her spoon at them.
But the Black Cygnet wasn’t a violent tavern. It catered to a crowd who came to enjoy good food, good music, and good company. There were no brawls, no dark dealings, and certainly no prostitutes milling about. Perhaps that was what brought her and Sam back here for dinner most nights—it felt so normal.
It was another place she’d miss.
When they arrived home after dinner, the apartment feeling strangely not hers now that Arobynn had broken in, Celaena went straight to the bedroom and lit a few candles. She was ready for this day to be over. Ready to dispatch Jayne and Farran, and then leave.
Sam appeared in the doorway. “I’ve never seen you so quiet,” he said.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the dresser. The scar from her fight with Ansel had faded from her cheek, and the one on her neck was well on its way to disappearing, too.
“I’m tired,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. She began unbuttoning her tunic, her hands feeling strangely clumsy. Was this why Arobynn had visited? Because he’d known he’d impact her like this? She straightened, hating the thought so much that she wanted to shatter the mirror in front of her.
“Did something happen?”
She reached the final button of her tunic, but didn’t take it off. She turned to face him, looking him up and down. Could she ever tell him everything?
“Talk to me,” he said, his brown eyes holding only concern. No twisted agendas, no mind games …
“Tell me your deepest secret,” she said softly.
Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he pushed off the threshold and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, setting the ends sticking up at odd angles.
After a long moment, he spoke. “The only secret I’ve borne my entire life is that I love you.” He gave her a slight smile. “It was the one thing I believed I’d go to the grave without voicing.” His eyes were so full of light that their loveliness almost stopped her heart.
She found herself walking toward him, then placing one hand along his cheek and threading the other through his hair. He turned his head to kiss her palm, as if the phantom blood that coated her hands didn’t bother him. His eyes found hers again. “What’s yours, then?”
The room felt too small, the air too thick. She closed her eyes. It took her a minute, and more nerve than she realized, but the answer finally came. It had always been there—whispering to her in her sleep, behind every breath, a dark weight that she couldn’t ever escape.
“Deep down,” she said, “I’m a coward.”
His brows rose.
“I’m a coward,” she repeated. “And I’m scared. I’m scared all the time. Always.”
He removed her hand from his cheek to kiss the tips of her fingers. “I get scared, too,” he murmured onto her skin. “You want to hear something ridiculous? Whenever I’m scared out of my wits, I tell myself: My name is Sam Cortland … and I will not be afraid. I’ve been doing it for years.”
It was her turn to raise her brows. “And that actually works?”
He laughed onto her fingers. “Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. But it usually makes me feel better to some degree. Or it just makes me laugh at myself a bit.”
It wasn’t the sort of fear she’d been talking about, but …
“I like that,” she said.
He laced his fingers with hers and pulled her onto his lap. “I like you,” he murmured, and Celaena let him kiss her until she’d again forgotten the dark burden that would always haunt her.
Chapter Five
Rourke Farran was a busy, busy man. Celaena and Sam were waiting a block away from Jayne’s house before dawn the next morning, both of them wearing nondescript clothing and cloaks with hoods deep enough to cover most of their features without giving alarm. Farran was out and about before the sun had fully risen. They trailed his carriage through the city, observing him at each stop. It was a wonder he even had time to indulge in his sadistic delights, because Jayne’s business certainly took up plenty of his time.
He took the same black carriage everywhere—more proof of his arrogance, since it made him an easily marked target. Unlike Doneval, who was constantly guarded, Farran seemed to deliberately go without guards, daring anyone to take him on.
They followed him to the bank, to the dining rooms and taverns owned by Jayne, to the brothels and the black-market stalls hidden in crumbling alleys, then back to the bank again. He made several stops at Jayne’s house in between, too. And then he surprised Celaena once by going into a bookshop—not to threaten the owner or collect dues, but to buy books.
She’d hated that, for some reason. Especially when, despite Sam’s protests, she’d quickly snuck in while the bookseller was in the back and spied the receipt ledger behind the desk. Farran hadn’t bought books about torture or death or anything wicked. Oh, no. They’d been adventure novels. Novels that she had read and enjoyed. The idea of Farran reading them too felt like a violation, somehow.
The day slipped by, and they learned little except for how brazenly he traveled about. Sam should have no trouble dispatching him tomorrow night.
When the sun was shifting into the golden hues of late afternoon, Farran pulled up at the nondescript iron door that led down into the Vaults.
At the end of the street, Celaena and Sam watched him as they pretended to be washing dung off their boots at a public spigot.
“It seems fitting that Jayne owns the Vaults,” Sam said quietly over the gushing water.
Celaena gave him a glare—or she would have, if the hood hadn’t been in the way. “Why do you think I got so mad about you fighting there? If you ever got into any trouble with the people at the Vaults, ever pissed them off, you’re significant enough that Farran himself would come to punish you.”
Sam snorted. “I can handle Farran.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t expect him actually to make a visit, though. Seems too dirty here, even for him.”
“Should we take a look?” The street was quiet. The Vaults came alive at night, but during the day, there wasn’t anyone in the alley except for a few stumbling drunks and the half-dozen guards always posted outside.
It was a risk, she supposed—going into the Vaults after Farran—but … If Farran truly rivaled her for notoriety, it would be interesting to get a sense of what he was really like before Sam ended his life tomorrow night. “Let’s go,” she said.
They flashed silver at the guards outside, then tossed it to the guards inside, and they were in. The thugs asked no questions, and didn’t demand they remove their weapons or their hoods. Their usual clientele wanted discretion while partaking in the twisted delights of the Vaults.
From the top of the stairs just inside the front door, Celaena instantly spotted Farran sitting at one of the scarred and burned wooden tables in the center of the room, talking to a man she recognized as Helmson, the master of ceremonies during the fights. A small lunchtime crowd had gathered at the other tables, though they’d all cleared a ring around Farran. At the back of the chamber, the pits were dark and quiet, slaves working to scrape off the blood and gore before the night’s revelries.
Celaena tried not to look too
long at the shackles and broken posture of the slaves. It was impossible to tell where they’d come from—if they’d begun as prisoners of war or had just been stolen from their kingdoms. She wondered if it was better to wind up as a slave here, or a prisoner in a brutal labor camp like Endovier. Both seemed like similar versions of a living hell.
Compared to the teeming crowds the other night, the Vaults were practically deserted today. Even the prostitutes in the exposed chambers flanking the sides of the cavernous space were resting while they could. Many of the girls slept in tangled heaps on the narrow cots, barely hidden from view by the shabby curtains designed to give the illusion of privacy.
She wanted to burn this place into nothing but ashes. And then let everyone know that this wasn’t the sort of thing Adarlan’s Assassin stood for. Perhaps after they’d taken out Farran and Jayne, she’d do just that. One final bit of glory and retribution from Celaena Sardothien—one last chance to make them remember her forever before she left.
Sam kept close to her as they reached the bottom of the stairs and strode to the bar tucked into the shadows beneath. A wisp of a man stood behind it, pretending to wipe down the wooden surface while his watery blue eyes stayed fixed on Farran.
“Two ales,” Sam growled. Celaena thumped a silver coin down on the bar, and the barkeep’s attention snapped to them. She was grossly overpaying, but the barkeep’s slender, scabbed hands vanished the silver in the blink of an eye.
There were enough people still inside the Vaults that Celaena and Sam could blend in— mostly drunks who never left the premises and people who seemed to enjoy this sort of wretched environment while eating their lunch. Celaena and Sam pretended to drink their ales—sloshing the alcohol on the ground when no one was looking—and watched Farran.
There was a locked wooden chest resting on the table beside Farran and the squat master of ceremonies—a chest that Celaena had no doubt was full of the Vaults’ earnings from the night before. Farran’s attention was fixed with feline intensity on Helmson, the chest seemingly forgotten. It was practically an invitation.
The Assassin and the Empire Page 4
