The Assassin's Blade

by Sarah J. Maas

  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 anyon
e 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 yout
hs 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?