Rolfe shifted his blade, digging in and making Celaena wince despite herself. “I’ll take that from your flesh, too, don’t worry.”
“How’d you find me?” She needed time. Needed something to work with. If she moved the wrong way, she’d find herself with a cut throat.
“I knew you’d follow Sam. If you were so set on freeing the slaves, then you certainly wouldn’t leave your companion to die alone. Though I think you arrived a bit too late for that.”
In the dense jungle, the cries of birds and beasts slowly returned. But the watchtower remained silent, interrupted only by the hiss of crumbling stone.
“You’re going to return with me,” Rolfe said. “And after I’m done with you, I’ll contact your master to come pick up the pieces.”
Rolfe took a step, pivoting them toward the town, but Celaena had been waiting.
Throwing her back into his chest, she hooked her foot behind his. Rolfe stumbled, tripping over her leg, and she wedged her hand between her neck and his dagger just as he remembered to act on his promise to slit her throat.
Blood from her palm splattered down her tunic, but she shoved the pain aside and butted her elbow into his stomach. Rolfe’s breath whooshed out of him, and he doubled over, only to meet her knee slamming into his face. A faint crack sounded as her kneecap connected with his nose. When she hurled Rolfe to the dirt, blood was on her pant leg—his blood.
She grabbed his fallen dagger as the Pirate Lord reached for his sword. He scrambled to his knees, lunging for her, but she stomped her foot down upon his sword, sending it crashing to the ground. Rolfe raised his head just in time for her to knock him onto his back. Crouching over him, she held his dagger to his neck.
“Well, that didn’t go the way you expected, did it?” she asked, listening for a moment to ensure no pirates were about to come crashing down the road. But the animals still hooted and screeched, the insects still hummed. They were alone. Most of the pirates were probably brawling in the town.
Her hand throbbed, blood pouring out as she grasped the collar of his tunic to lift his head closer to hers.
“So,” she said, her smirk widening at the blood dripping from his nose. “This is what’s going to happen.” She dropped his collar and fished out the two papers from inside her tunic. Compared to the pain in her hand, the injury on her arm had faded to a dull pulsing. “You are going to sign these and stamp each with your seal.”
“I refuse,” Rolfe seethed.
“You don’t even know what they say.” She pushed the tip of the dagger into his heaving throat. “So allow me to clarify: one of these is a letter to my master. It says that the deal is over, that you won’t be sending him slaves, and if you catch him entering into another slave-trade agreement with anyone else, you’ll bring your whole armada to punish him.”
Rolfe choked. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But I’m not done yet.” She picked up the second letter. “This one … I wrote this one for you. I did my best to try to write it in your voice, but you’ll forgive me if it’s a tad more elegant than you’re used to being.” Rolfe struggled, but she pushed the blade a little harder, and he stopped. “Basically,” she said, sighing dramatically, “this one says that you, Captain Rolfe, bearer of the magical map inked on your hands, will never, ever sell a slave again. And if you catch any pirates selling or transporting or trading slaves, you’ll hang, burn, or drown them yourself. And that Skull’s Bay is forevermore a safe haven for any slaves fleeing Adarlan’s clutches.”
Rolfe practically had steam blowing out his ears. “I won’t sign either of them, you stupid girl. Don’t you know who I am?”
̴Fine,” she said, angling the blade to sink into his flesh more easily. “I memorized your signature when I was in your office that first day. It won’t be hard to forge. And as for your seal ring …” She removed something else from her pocket. “I also took that the first day in your office, just in case I needed it. Turns out I was right.” Rolfe croaked as she held it up in her free hand, the garnet flashing in the light. “I figure I can return to town and tell your cronies that you decided to set sail after those slaves, and to expect you back in … I don’t know—six months? A year? Long enough that they won’t notice the grave I’ll dig for you right off the road here. Frankly, you’ve seen who I am, and I should end your life for it. But consider it a favor—and a promise that if you don’t follow my orders, I’ll change my decision to spare you.”
Rolfe’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Why?”
“You’ll have to clarify that.”
He took a breath. “Why go to so much trouble for slaves?”
“Because if we don’t fight for them, who will?” She pulled a fountain pen from her pocket. “Sign the papers.”
Rolfe raised an eyebrow. “And how will you know that I’m holding true to my word?”
She removed the dagger from his throat, using the blade to brush back a strand of his dark hair. “I have my sources. And if I hear that you’re trading slaves, no matter where you go, no matter how far you run, I will hunt you down. That’s twice now I’ve disabled you. The third time, you won’t be so lucky. I swear that on my name. I’m almost seventeen, and I can already wallop you; imagine how good I’ll be in a few years.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll want to try me now—and certainly not then.”
Rolfe stared at her for a few heartbeats. “If you ever set foot in my territory again, your life is forfeit.” He paused, then muttered, “May the gods help Arobynn.” He took the pen. “Any other requests?”
She eased off him, but kept the dagger in her hand. “Why, yes,” she said. “A ship would be nice.”
Rolfe only glared at her before he grabbed the documents.
When Rolfe had signed, stamped, and handed the documents to Celaena, she took the liberty of knocking him out again. Swift blows to two points in his neck did the trick, and he’d be out long enough for her to accomplish what she needed: to find Sam.
She raced up the half-crumbling stairs of the tower, leaping over pirate corpses and chunks of stone, not stopping until she found the crushed bodies of the dozen pirates who were closest to Sam and the ruins of the catapults. Blood, bone, squished bits of flesh that she didn’t particularly care to look at for too long …
“Sam!” she shouted, slipping over a bit of debris. She heaved a slab of wood off the side, scanning the landing for any sign of him. “Sam!”
Her hand began bleeding again, leaving smears of blood as she turned over stone and wood and metal. Where was he?
It had been her plan. If one of them had to die for it, it should have been her. Not him.
She reached the second catapult, its entire frame snapped in half from a fallen piece of tower. She’d last seen him here. A slab of stone jutted up from where it had hit the landing. It was large enough to have squashed someone beneath.
She hurled herself against it, her feet sliding against the ground as she pushed and pushed and pushed. The stone didn’t move.
Grunting, gasping, she shoved harder. Still the stone was too large.
Cursing, she beat a fist against the gray surface, her injured hand aching in protest. The pain snapped something open, and she struck the stone again and again, clenching her jaw to keep the building scream inside of her.
“For some reason, I don’t think that’s going to make the rock move,” said a voice, and Celaena whirled.
Emerging from the other side of the landing was Sam. He was covered head to toe in gray dust, and blood leaked from a cut in his forehead, but he was …
She lifted her chin. “I’ve been shouting for you.”
Sam shrugged, sauntering over to her. “I figured you could wait a few minutes, given that I saved the day and all.” His brows rose high on his ash-covered face.
“Some hero.” She gestured to the ruin of the tower around them. “I’ve never seen such sloppy work.”
Sam smiled, his brown eyes turning golden in the
dawn. It was such a Sam look, the twinkle of mischief, the hint of exasperation, the kindness that would always, always make him a better person than she was.
Before she knew what she was doing, Celaena threw her arms around him and held him close.
Sam stiffened, but after a heartbeat, his arms came around her. She breathed him in—the smell of his sweat, the tang of the dust and rock, the metallic odor of his blood … Sam rested his cheek on her head. She couldn’t remember—honestly couldn’t recall—the last time anyone had held her. No, wait—it had been a year ago. With Ben, after she’d come back from a mission two hours late and with a sprained ankle. He’d been worried, and given how close she’d come to being captured by the royal guards, she was more than a bit shaken.
But embracing Sam was different, somehow. Like she wanted to curl into his warmth, like for one moment, she didn’t have to worry about anything or anybody.
“Sam,” she murmured into his chest.
“Hmm?”
She peeled away from him, stepping out of his arms. “If you ever tell anyone about me embracing you … I’ll gut you.”
Sam gaped at her, then tipped his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed, until dust lodged in his throat and he launched into a coughing fit. She let him suffer through it, not finding it very funny at all.
When he could breathe again, Sam cleared his throat. “Come on, Sardothien,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “If you’re done liberating slaves and destroying pirate cities, then let’s go home.”
Celaena glanced at him sidelong and grinned.
THE
ASSASSIN
AND THE
HEALER
CHAPTER
1
The strange young woman had been staying at the White Pig Inn for two days now and had hardly spoken to anyone save for Nolan, who had taken one look at her fine night-dark clothes and bent over backward to accommodate her.
He gave her the best room at the Pig—the room he only offered to patrons he intended to bleed dry—and didn’t seem at all bothered by the heavy hood the young woman wore or the assortment of weapons that gleamed along her long, lean body. Not when she tossed him a gold coin with a casual flick of her gloved fingers. Not when she was wearing an ornate gold brooch with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg.
Then again, Nolan was never really afraid of anyone, unless they seemed likely not to pay him—and even then, it was anger and greed, not fear, that won out.
Yrene Towers had been watching the young woman from the safety of the taproom bar. Watching, if only because the stranger was young and unaccompanied and sat at the back table with such stillness that it was impossible not to look. Not to wonder.
Yrene hadn’t seen her face yet, though she’d caught a glimpse every now and then of a golden braid glinting from the depths of her black hood. In any other city, the White Pig Inn would likely be considered the lowest of the low as far as luxury and cleanliness were concerned. But here in Innish, a port town so small it wasn’t on most maps, it was considered the finest.
Yrene glanced at the mug she was currently cleaning and tried not to wince. She did her best to keep the bar and taproom clean, to serve the Pig’s patrons—most of them sailors or merchants or mercenaries who often thought she was up for purchase as well—with a smile. But Nolan still watered down the wine, still washed the sheets only when there was no denying the presence of lice and fleas, and sometimes used whatever meat could be found in the back alley for their daily stew.
Yrene had been working here for a year now—eleven months longer than she had intended—and the White Pig still sickened her. Considering that she could stomach almost anything (a fact that allowed both Nolan and Jessa to demand she clean up the most disgusting messes of their patrons), that was really saying something.
The stranger at the back table lifted her head, signaling with a gloved finger for Yrene to bring another ale. For someone who didn’t seem older than twenty, the young woman drank an ungodly amount—wine, ale, whatever Nolan bade Yrene bring over—but never seemed to lose herself to it. It was impossible to tell with that heavy hood, though. These past two nights she’d merely stalked back to her room with a feline grace, not stumbling over herself like most of the patrons on their way out after last call.
Yrene quickly poured ale into the mug she’d just been drying and set it on a tray. She added a glass of water and some more bread, since the girl hadn’t touched the stew she’d been given for dinner. Not a single bite. Smart woman.
Yrene wove through the packed taproom, dodging the hands that tried to grab her. Halfway through her trek, she caught Nolan’s eye from where he sat by the front door. An encouraging nod, his mostly bald head gleaming in the dim light. Keep her drinking. Keep her buying.
Yrene avoided rolling her eyes, if only because Nolan was the sole reason she wasn’t walking the cobblestone streets with the other young women of Innish. A year ago, the stout man had let her convince him that he needed more help in the tavern below the inn. Of course, he’d only accepted when he realized he’d be receiving the better end of the bargain.
But she’d been eighteen and desperate, and had gladly taken a job that offered only a few coppers and a miserable little bed in a broom closet beneath the stairs. Most of her money came from tips, but Nolan claimed half of them. And then Jessa, the other barmaid, usually claimed two-thirds of what remained, because, as Jessa often said, she was the pretty face that gets the men to part with their money, anyway.
One glance into a corner revealed that pretty face and its attendant body perched on the lap of a bearded sailor, giggling and tossing her thick brown curls. Yrene sighed through her nose but didn’t complain, because Jessa was Nolan’s favorite, and Yrene had nowhere—absolutely nowhere—left to go. Innish was her home now, and the White Pig was her haven. Outside of it, the world was too big, too full of splintered dreams and armies that had crushed and burned everything Yrene held dear.
Yrene at last reached the stranger’s table and found the young woman looking up at her. “I brought you some water and bread, too,” Yrene stammered by way of greeting. She set down the ale, but hesitated with the other two items on her tray.
The young woman just said, “Thank you.” Her voice was low and cool—cultured. Educated. And completely uninterested in Yrene.
Not that there was anything about her that was remotely interesting, with her homespun wool dress doing little for her too-slim figure. Like most who hailed from southern Fenharrow, Yrene had golden-tan skin and absolutely ordinary brown hair and was of average height. Only her eyes, a bright gold-brown, gave her any source of pride. Not that most people saw them. Yrene did her best to keep her eyes down most of the time, avoiding any invitation for communication or the wrong kind of attention.
So, Yrene set down the bread and water and took the empty mug from where the girl had pushed it to the center of the table. But curiosity won out, and she peered into the black depths beneath the young woman’s cowl. Nothing but shadows, a gleam of gold hair, and a hint of pale skin. She had so many questions—so, so many questions. Who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going? Can you use all those blades you carry?
Nolan was watching the entire encounter, so Yrene curtsied and walked back to the bar through the field of groping hands, eyes downcast as she plastered a distant smile on her face.
Celaena Sardothien sat at her table in the absolutely worthless inn, wondering how her life had gone to hell so quickly.
She hated Innish. Hated the reek of trash and filth, hated the heavy blanket of mist that shrouded it day and night, hated the second-rate merchants and mercenaries and generally miserable people who occupied it.
No one here knew who she was, or why she’d come; no one knew that the girl beneath the hood was Celaena Sardothien, the most notorious assassin in Adarlan’s empire. But then again, she didn’t want them to know. Couldn’t let them know, actually. And didn’t want them knowing that she was j
ust over a week away from turning seventeen, either.
She’d been here for two days now—two days spent either holed up in her despicable room (a “suite,” the oily innkeeper had the nerve to call it), or down here in the taproom that stank of sweat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies.
She would have left if she’d had any choice. But she was forced to be here, thanks to her master, Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins. She’d always been proud of her status as his chosen heir—always flaunted it. But now … This journey was her punishment for destroying his atrocious slave-trade agreement with the Pirate Lord of Skull’s Bay. So unless she wanted to risk the trek through the Bogdano Jungle—the feral bit of land that bridged the continent to the Deserted Land—sailing across the Gulf of Oro was the only way. Which meant waiting here, in this dump of a tavern, for a ship to take her to Yurpa.
Celaena sighed and took a long drink of her ale. She almost spat it out. Disgusting. Cheap as cheap could be, like the rest of this place. Like the stew she hadn’t touched. Whatever meat was in there wasn’t from any creature worth eating. Bread and mild cheese it was, then.
Celaena sat back in her seat, watching the barmaid with the brown-gold hair slip through the labyrinth of tables and chairs. The girl nimbly dodged the men who groped her, all without disturbing the tray she carried over her shoulder. What a waste of swift feet, good balance, and intelligent, stunning eyes. The girl wasn’t dumb. Celaena had noted the way she watched the room and its patrons—the way she watched Celaena herself. What personal hell had driven her to work here?
Celaena didn’t particularly care. The questions were mostly to drive the boredom away. She’d already devoured the three books she’d carried with her from Rifthold, and not one of the shops in Innish had a single book for sale—only spices, fish, out-of-fashion clothing, and nautical gear. For a port town, it was pathetic. But the Kingdom of Melisande had fallen on hard times in the past eight and a half years—since the King of Adarlan had conquered the continent and redirected trade through Eyllwe instead of Melisande’s few eastern ports.
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