The Assassin's Blade

by Sarah J. Maas

  A low growl slipped through her teeth, but Rolfe was already walking to his group of guards. Celaena and Sam followed him, observing as the last of the slaves were shoved onto the deck.

  “Where are the slaves from yesterday?” Sam asked.

  Rolfe waved a hand. “Most are on that ship, and will leave tomorrow.” He pointed to a nearby ship and ordered one of the slave drivers to start the inspection.

  They waited until a few slaves had been looked over, offering remarks on how fit a slave was, where he’d fetch a good price in Rifthold. Each word tasted fouler than the last.

  “Tonight,” she said to the Pirate Lord, “you can guarantee that this ship’s protected?” Rolfe sighed loudly and nodded. “That watchtower across the bay,” she pressed. “I assume that they’ll also be responsible for monitoring this ship, too?”

  “Yes,” Rolfe snapped. Celaena opened her mouth, but he interrupted. “And before you ask, let me say that we change the watch just before dawn.” So they’d have to target the morning watch instead, to avoid any alarm being raised at dawn—at high tide. Which was a slight hitch in her plan, but they could easily fix it.

  “How many of the slaves speak our language?” she asked.

  Rolfe raised a brow. “Why?”

  She could feel Sam tense beside her, but she shrugged. “It might add to their value.”

  Rolfe studied her a bit too closely, then whirled to face a slave woman standing nearby. “Do you speak the common tongue?”

  She looked this way and that, clutching her scraps of clothing to her—a mix of fur and wool undoubtedly worn to keep her warm in the frigid mountain passes of the White Fangs.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Rolfe demanded. The woman lifted her shackled hands. Raw, red skin lay around the iron.

  “I think the answer is no,” Sam offered.

  Rolfe glared at him, then walked through the stables. “Can any of you speak the common tongue?” He repeated himself, and was about to turn back when an older Eyllwe man—reed thin and covered with cuts and bruises—stepped forward.

  “I can,” he said.

  “That’s it?” Rolfe barked at the slaves. “No one else?” Celaena approached the man who had spoken, committing his face to memory. He recoiled at her mask and her cloak.

  “Well, at least he might fetch a higher price,” Celaena said over her shoulder to Rolfe. Sam summoned Rolfe with a question about the mountain-woman in front of him, providing enough distraction. “What’s your name?” Celaena asked the slave.

  “Dia.” His long, frail fingers trembled slightly.

  “You’re fluent?”

  He nodded. “My—my mother was from Bellhaven. My father was a merchant from Banjali. I grew up with both languages.”

  And he’d probably never worked a day in his life. How had he gotten caught up in this mess? The other slaves on the deck hung back, huddling together, even some of the larger men and women whose scars and bruises marked them as fighters—prisoners of war. Had they already seen enough of slavery to break them? For both her sake and theirs, she hoped not.

  “Good,” she said, and strode away.

  Hours later, no one noticed—or if they did, they certainly didn’t care—when two cloaked figures slipped into two rowboats and headed toward the slave ships hovering several hundred yards offshore. A few lanterns illuminated the behemoth vessels, but the moon was bright enough for Celaena to easily make out the Golden Wolf as she rowed toward it.

  To her right, Sam rowed as quietly as he could to the Loveless, where the slaves from yesterday were being held. Silence was their only hope and ally, though the town behind them was already in the midst of revelry. It hadn’t taken long for word to get out that Arobynn Hamel’s assassins had opened a celebratory tab at the tavern, and even as they had strode to the docks, pirates were already streaming the other way toward the inn.

  Panting through her mask, Celaena’s arms ached with each stroke. It wasn’t the town she was worried about, but the solitary watchtower to her left. A fire burned in its jagged turret, faintly illuminating the catapults and the ancient chain across the narrow bay mouth. If they were to be caught, the first alarm would be sounded from there.

  It might have been easier to escape now—take down the watch-tower, overpower the slave ships, and set sail—but the chain was only the first in a line of defenses. The Dead Islands were nearly impossible to navigate at night, and at low tide … They’d get a few miles and run aground on a reef or a sandbank.

  Celaena drifted the last few feet to the Golden Wolf and grasped the rung of a wooden ladder to keep the boat from thudding too hard against the hull.

  They were better off at first light tomorrow, when the pirates would be too drunk or unconscious to notice, and when they had high tide on their side.

  Sam flashed a compact mirror, indicating he’d made it to the Loveless. Catching the light in her own mirror, she signaled him back, then flashed twice, indicating that she was ready.

  A moment later, Sam returned the same signal. Celaena took a long, steadying breath.

  It was time.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Nimble as a cat and smooth as a snake, Celaena climbed the wooden ladder built into the side of the ship.

  The first guard didn’t notice she was upon him until her hands were around his neck, striking the two points that sent him into unconsciousness. He slumped to the deck, and she caught him by his filthy tunic, softening his fall. Quiet as mice, quiet as the wind, quiet as the grave.

  The second guard, stationed at the helm, saw her coming up the staircase. He managed to emit a muffled cry before the pommel of her dagger slammed into his forehead. Not as neat, and not as quiet: he hit the deck with a thud that made the third guard, stationed at the prow, whirl to see.

  But it was shadowy, and there were yards of ship between them. Celaena crouched low to the deck, covering the fallen guard’s body with her cloak.

  “Jon?” the third guard called across the deck. Celaena winced at the sound. Not too far away, the Loveless was silent.

  Celaena grimaced at the reek from Jon’s unwashed body.

  “Jon?” the guard said, and thumping steps followed. Closer and closer. He’d see the first guard soon.

  Three … two … one …

  “What in hell?” The guard tripped over the first guard’s prostrate body.

  Celaena moved.

  She swung over the railing fast enough that the guard didn’t look up until she’d landed behind him. All it took was a swift blow to the head and she was easing his body down atop the first guard’s. Her heart hammering through every inch of her, she sprinted to the prow of the ship. She flashed the mirror three times. Three guards down.

  Nothing.

  “Come on, Sam.” She signaled again.

  Far too many heartbeats later, a signal greeted her. The air rushed from her lungs in a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The guards on the Loveless were unconscious, too.

  She signaled once. The watchtower was still quiet. If the guards were up there, they hadn’t seen anything. She had to be quick, had to get this done before her disappearance was noticed.

  The guard outside the captain’s quarters managed to kick the wall hard enough to wake the dead before she knocked him out, but it didn’t stop Captain Fairview from squealing when she slipped into his office and shut the door.

  When Fairview was secured in the brig, gagged and bound and fully aware that his cooperation and the cooperation of his guards meant his life, she crept down to the cargo area.

  The passages were cramped, but the two guards at the door still didn’t notice her until she took the liberty of rendering them unconscious.

  Silently as she could, she grabbed a lantern hanging from a peg on the wall and opened the door. The reek almost brought her to her knees.

  The ceiling was so low she almost grazed it with her head. The slaves had all been chained, sitting, to the floor. No latrin
es, no source of light, no food or water.

  The slaves murmured, squinting against the sudden brightness of the torchlight leaking in from the hallway.

  Celaena took the ring of keys she’d stolen from the captain’s quarters and stepped into the cargo chamber. “Where is Dia?” she asked. They said nothing, either because they didn’t understand, or out of solidarity.

  Celaena sighed, stepping farther into the chamber, and some of the wild-eyed mountain men murmured to one another. While they might have only recently declared themselves Adarlan’s enemies, the people of the White Fang Mountains had long been known for their unyielding love of violence. If she were to meet with any trouble in here, it would be from them. “Where is Dia?” she asked more loudly.

  A trembling voice came from the back of the cargo area. “Here.” Her eyes strained to spy his narrow, fine features. “I’m here.”

  She strode carefully through the crowded darkness. They were so close together that there was no room to move, and hardly any air to breathe. No wonder seven had died on the voyage here.

  She took out Captain Fairview’s key and freed the shackles at Dia’s feet, then his manacles, before offering him a hand up. “You’re going to translate for me.” The mountain folk and whoever else didn’t speak either the common tongue or Eyllwe could figure out enough on their own.

  Dia rubbed his wrists, which were bleeding and scabbed in places. “Who are you?”

  Celaena unlocked the chains of the too-thin woman beside Dia, then held out the keys in her direction. “A friend,” she said. “Tell her to unlock everyone, but tell them not to leave this room.”

  Dia nodded, and spoke in Eyllwe. The woman, mouth slightly open, looked at Celaena, then took the keys. Without a word, she set about freeing her companions. Dia then addressed the entire cargo bay, his voice soft but fierce.

  “The guards are unconscious,” she said. Dia translated. “The captain has been locked in the brig, and tomorrow, should you choose to act, he will guide you through the Dead Islands and to safety. He knows that the penalty for bad information is death.”

  Dia translated, his eyes growing wider and wider. Somewhere near the back, one of the mountain men began translating. And then two others translated, too—one in the language of Melisande, and another in a language she didn’t recognize. Had it been clever or cowardly of them not to speak up last night when she asked who spoke the common tongue?

  “When I am done explaining our plan of action,” she said, her hands shaking a bit as she suddenly recalled what, exactly, lay before them, “you may leave this room, but do not set foot on the decks. There are guards in the watchtower, and guards monitoring this ship from land. If they see you on the deck, they will warn everyone.”

  She let Dia and the others finish before going on.

  “My colleague is already aboard the Loveless, another slave ship set to sail tomorrow.” She swallowed hard. “When I am done here, he and I will return to the town and create a distraction large enough that when the dawn breaks, you will have enough time to sail out of the harbor. You need the full day to sail out of the Dead Islands before dark—or else you’ll be caught in their labyrinth.”

  Dia translated, but a woman spoke from nearby. Dia frowned as he turned to Celaena. “She has two questions. What of the chain at the entrance to the bay? And how will we sail the ship?”

  Celaena nodded. “Leave the chain to us. We’ll have it down before you reach it.”

  When Dia and the others translated, murmurs broke out. Shackles were still thudding to the ground as slave after slave was unlocked.

  “As for sailing the ship,” she went on above the noise, “are any of you sailors? Fishermen?”

  Some hands went up. “Captain Fairview will give you specific instructions. You’ll have to row out of the bay, though. Everyone who has the strength will be needed on the oars, or you won’t have a shot of outrunning Rolfe’s ships.”

  “What of his fleet?” another man asked.

  “Leave it to me.” Sam was probably already rowing over to the Golden Wolf. They had to get back to shore now. “No matter if the chain is still up, no matter what might be happening in town, the moment the sun slips over the horizon, you start rowing like hell.”

  A few voices objected to Dia’s translation, and he gave a sharp, short reply before turning to her. “We will sort out specifics on our own.”

  She lifted her chin. “Discuss it among yourselves. Your fate is yours to decide. But no matter what plan you choose, I will have the chain down, and will buy you as much time as I can at dawn.”

  She bowed her head in farewell as she left the cargo hold, beckoning Dia along with her. Discussion started behind them—muffled, at least.

  In the hallway, she could see how thin he was, how filthy. She pointed down the hall. “That is where the brig is; there you’ll find Captain Fairview. Get him out before dawn, and don’t be afraid to bloody him up a bit if he refuses to talk. There are three unconscious guards tied up on the deck, a guard outside Fairview’s quarters, and the two here. Do whatever you want with them; the choice is yours.”

  “I’ll have someone take them to the brig,” Dia said quickly. He rubbed at the stubble on his face. “How much time will we have to get away? How long before the pirates notice?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try to disable their ships, which might slow them down.” They reached the narrow stairs that led to the upper decks. “There’s one thing I need you to do,” she continued, and he looked up at her, his eyes bright. “My colleague doesn’t speak Eyllwe. I need you to take a rowboat to the other ship and tell them all that I’ve told you, and unlock their chains. We have to return to shore now, so you’ll have to go alone.”

  Dia sucked in a breath, but nodded. “I will.”

  After Dia told the people in the cargo bay to take the unconscious guards to the brig, he crept with Celaena onto the empty deck. He cringed at the sight of the unconscious guards, but didn’t object when she swept Jon’s cloak over his shoulders and concealed his face in the folds of the cloak. Or when she gave him Jon’s sword and dagger.

  Sam was already waiting at the side of the ship, hidden from the far-seeing eyes of the watchtower. He helped Dia into the first rowboat before climbing into the second and waiting for Celaena to get aboard.

  Blood gleamed on Sam’s dark tunic, but they’d both packed a change of clothes. Silently, Sam picked up the oars. Celaena cleared her throat. Dia turned back to her.

  She inclined her head east, toward the mouth of the bay. “Remember: you must start rowing at sunrise, even if the chain is up. Every moment you delay means losing the tide.”

  Dia grasped the oars. “We will be ready.”

  “Then good luck,” she said. Without another word, Dia began rowing to the other ship, his strokes a bit too loud for her liking, but not enough to be detected.

  Sam, too, started rowing, slipping around the curve of the prow and heading toward the docks at a casual, unsuspicious pace.

  “Nervous?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the steady slice of his oars through the calm bay.

  “No,” she lied.

  “Me, too.”

  Ahead of them were the golden lights of Skull’s Bay. Hoots and cheers echoed across the water. Word had certainly spread about the free ale.

  She smiled slightly. “Get ready to unleash hell.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Though the chant of the crowd roared around them, Rolfe and Sam had their eyes closed in concentration as their throats moved up and down, down and up, chugging their mugs of ale. And Celaena, watching it from behind her mask, could not stop laughing.

  It wasn’t that hard to pretend Sam was drunk and they were having the grandest time in the world. Mostly because of her mask, but also because Sam played the part very, very well.

  Rolfe slammed his mug on the table, letting out a satisfied “Ah!” and wiping his wet mouth on his sleeve as the gathered crowd cheered. Cel
aena cackled, her masked face oozing sweat. Like everyplace else on this island, the tavern was suffocatingly hot, and the odor of ale and unwashed bodies poured from every crevice and stone.

  It was packed to capacity. A three-man ensemble made up of an accordion, a fiddle, and a tambourine played raucously in the corner by the hearth. Pirates swapped stories and called for their favorite songs. Peasants and lowlifes drank themselves into oblivion and gambled on rigged games of chance. Harlots patrolled the room, milling around tables and sitting on laps.

  Across from her, Rolfe grinned, and Sam drained the last from his mug. Or so Rolfe thought. Given how often drinks were spilled and splashed, no one really noticed the constant puddle around Sam’s mug, and the hole he’d drilled into the bottom of it was too small to detect.

  The crowd dispersed, and Celaena laughed as she raised her hand. “Another round, gentlemen?” she cried, signaling for the barmaid.

  “Well,” Rolfe said, “I think it’s safe to say that I prefer you like this to when we’re discussing business.”

  Sam leaned in, a conspirator’s grin on his face. “Oh, I do, too. She’s horrible most of the time.”

  Celaena kicked him—hard enough, because she knew it wasn’t entirely a lie—and Sam yelped. Rolfe chuckled.

  She flipped the barmaid a copper as the woman refilled Rolfe’s and Sam’s mugs.

  “So, will I ever get to see the face behind the legendary Celaena Sardothien?” Rolfe leaned forward to rest his arms on the sodden table. The clock behind the bar read three thirty in the morning. They had to act soon. Given how crowded the tavern was, and how many of the pirates were already halfway unconscious, it was a miracle there was any ale left in Skull’s Bay. If Arobynn and Rolfe didn’t kill her for freeing the slaves, then Rolfe might very well murder her for starting a tab with not nearly enough money to pay for it all.

  She leaned closer to Rolfe. “If you make my master and me as much money as you claim, I’ll show you my face.”

  Rolfe glanced at the tattooed map on his hands.