The Assassin's Blade

by Sarah J. Maas

  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 e
xplain 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.

&nbs
p; 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.