The inventor asked to take her final measurements, though the ones Arobynn had supplied were almost perfect. She lifted her arms out as he did the measuring, asking him bland questions about his trip from Melisande and what he planned to sell here. He was a master tinkerer, he said—and specialized in crafting things that were believed to be impossible. Like a suit that was both armor and an armory, and lightweight enough to wear comfortably.
Celaena looked over her shoulder at Arobynn, who had watched her interrogation with a bemused smile. “Are you getting one made?”
“Of course. And Sam, too. Only the best for my best.” She noticed that he didn’t say “assassin”—but whatever the tinkerer thought about who they were, his face yielded no sign.
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You never give Sam gifts.”
Arobynn shrugged, picking at his manicured nails. “Oh, Sam will be paying for the suit. I can’t have my second-best completely vulnerable, can I?”
She hid her shock better this time. A suit like this had to cost a small fortune. Materials aside, just the hours it must have taken the tinkerer to create it … Arobynn had to have commissioned them immediately after he’d sent her to the Red Desert. Perhaps he truly felt bad about what happened. But to force Sam to buy it …
The clock chimed eleven, and Arobynn let out a long breath. “I have a meeting.” He waved a ringed hand to the tinkerer. “Give the bill to my manservant when you’re done.” The master tinkerer nodded, still measuring Celaena.
Arobynn approached her, each step as graceful as a movement of a dance. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m glad to have you back,” he murmured onto her hair. With that, he strolled from the room, whistling to himself.
The tinkerer knelt to measure the length between her knee and boot-tip, for whatever purpose that had. Celaena cleared her throat, waiting until she was sure Arobynn was out of earshot. “If I were to give you a piece of Spidersilk, could you incorporate it into one of these uniforms? It’s small, so I’d just want it placed around the heart.” She used her hands to show the size of the material that she’d been given by the merchant in the desert city of Xandria.
Spidersilk was a near-mythical material made by horse-sized stygian spiders—so rare that you had to brave the spiders yourself to get it. And they didn’t trade in gold. No, they coveted things like dreams and memories and souls. The merchant she’d met had traded twenty years of his youth for two hundred yards of it. And after a long, strange conversation with him, he’d given her a few square inches of Spidersilk. As a reminder, he’d said. That everything has a price.
The master tinkerer’s bushy brows rose. “I—I suppose. To the interior or the exterior? I think the interior,” he went on, answering his own question. “If I sewed it to the exterior, the iridescence might ruin the stealth of the black. But it’d turn any blade, and it’s just barely the right size to shield the heart. Oh, what I’d give for ten yards of Spidersilk! You’d be invincible, my dear.”
She smiled slowly. “As long as it guards the heart.”
She left the tinkerer in the hall. Her suit would be ready the day after tomorrow.
It didn’t surprise her when she ran into Sam on her way out. She’d spotted the dummy that bore his own suit waiting for him in the training hall. Alone with her in the hallway, he examined her suit. She still had to change quickly out of it and bring it back downstairs to the tinkerer before he left so he could make his final adjustments in whatever shop he’d set up while he was staying in Rifthold.
“Fancy,” Sam said. She made to put her hands on her hips, but stopped. Until she mastered the suit, she had to watch how she moved—or else she might skewer someone. “Another gift?”
“Is there a problem if it is?”
She hadn’t seen Sam at all yesterday, but, then again, she’d also made herself pretty scarce. It wasn’t that she was avoiding him; she just didn’t particularly want to see him if it meant running into Lysandra, too. But it seemed strange that he wasn’t on any mission. Most of the other assassins were away on various jobs or so busy they were hardly at home. But Sam just seemed to be hanging around the Keep, or helping Lysandra and her madam.
Sam crossed his arms. His white shirt was tight enough that she could see the muscles shifting beneath. “Not at all. I’m just a little surprised that you’re accepting his gifts. How can you forgive him after what he did?”
“Forgive him! I’m not the one cavorting with Lysandra and attending luncheons and doing … doing whatever in hell it is you spent the summer doing!”
Sam let out a low growl. “You think I particularly enjoy any of that?”
“You weren’t the one sent off to the Red Desert.”
“Believe me, I would rather have been thousands of miles away.”
“I don’t believe you. How can I believe anything you say?”
His brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. None of your business. I don’t want to talk about this. And I don’t particularly want to talk to you, Sam Cortland.”
“Then go ahead,” he breathed. “Go crawl back to Arobynn’s study and talk to him. Let him buy you presents and pet your hair and offer you the best-paying missions we get. It won’t take him long to figure out the price for your forgiveness, not when—”
She shoved him. “Don’t you dare judge me. Don’t you say one more word.”
A muscle feathered in his jaw. “That’s fine with me. You wouldn’t listen anyway. Celaena Sardothien and Arobynn Hamel: just the two of you, inseparable, until the end of the world. The rest of us might as well be invisible.”
“That sounds an awful lot like jealousy. Especially considering you had three uninterrupted months with him this summer. What happened, hmm? You failed to convince him to make you his favorite? Found you lacking, did he?”
Sam was in her face so quickly that she fought the urge to jump back. “You know nothing about what this summer was like for me. Nothing, Celaena.”
“Good. I don’t particularly care.”
His eyes were so wide that she wondered if she’d struck him without realizing it. At last he stepped away, and she stormed past him. She halted when he spoke again. “You want to know what price I asked for forgiving Arobynn, Celaena?”
She slowly turned. With the ongoing rain, the hall was full of shadows and light. Sam stood so still that he might have been a statue. “My price was his oath that he’d never lay a hand on you again. I told him I’d forgive him in exchange for that.”
She wished he’d punched her in the gut. It would have hurt less. Not trusting herself to keep from falling to her knees with shame right there, she just stalked down the hall.
She didn’t want to speak to Sam ever again. How could she look him in the eye? He’d made Arobynn swear that for her. She didn’t know what words could convey the mixture of gratitude and guilt. Hating him had been so much easier … And it would have been far simpler if he’d blamed her for Arobynn’s punishment. She had said such cruel things to him in the hallway; how could she ever begin to apologize?
Arobynn came to her room after lunch and told her to have a dress pressed. Doneval, he’d heard, was going to be at the theater that night, and with four days until his exchange, it would be in her best interest to go.
She’d formulated a plan for stalking Doneval, but she wasn’t proud enough to refuse Arobynn’s offer to use his box at the theater for spying—to see who Doneval spoke to, who sat near him, who guarded him. And to see a classical dance performed with a full orchestra … well, she’d never turn that down. But Arobynn failed to say who would be joining them.
She found out the hard way when she climbed into Arobynn’s carriage and discovered Lysandra and Sam waiting inside. With four days until her Bidding, the young courtesan needed all the exposure she could get, Arobynn calmly explained. And Sam was there to provide additional security.
Celaena dared a glance at Sam as she slumped onto the bench besid
e him. He watched her, his eyes wary, shoulders tensed, as if he expected her to launch a verbal attack at him right there. Like she’d mock him for what he’d done for her sake. Did he really think she was that cruel? Feeling a bit sick, she dropped Sam’s stare. Lysandra just smiled at Celaena from across the carriage and linked her elbow through Arobynn’s.
Chapter Three
Two attendants greeted them at Arobynn’s private box, taking their sodden cloaks and exchanging them for glasses of sparkling wine. Immediately, one of Arobynn’s acquaintances popped in from the hall to say hello, and Arobynn, Sam, and Lysandra remained in the velvet-lined antechamber as they chatted. Celaena, who had no interest in seeing Lysandra test out her flirting with Arobynn’s friend, strode through the crimson curtain to take her usual seat closest to the stage.
Arobynn’s box was on the side of the cavernous hall, near enough to the center so that she had a mostly unobstructed view of the stage and the orchestra pit, but still angled enough to make her look longingly at the empty Royal Boxes. All of them occupied the coveted center position, and all of them were vacant. What a waste.
She cast her eyes around the floor seats and the other boxes, taking in the glittering jewels, the silk dresses, the golden glow of sparkling wine in fluted glasses, the rumbling murmur of the mingling crowd. If there was one place where she felt the most at home, a place where she felt happiest, it was here, in this theater, with the red velvet cushions and the glass chandeliers and the gilded domed ceiling high, high above them. Had it been coincidence or planning that had led to the theater being constructed in the very heart of the city, a mere twenty-minute walk from the Assassin’s Keep? She knew it would be hard for her to adjust to her new apartment, which was nearly double the distance from the theater. A sacrifice she was willing to make—if she ever found the right moment to tell Arobynn she was paying her debt and moving out. Which she would. Soon.
She felt Arobynn’s easy, self-assured gait strutting across the carpet, and straightened as he leaned over her shoulder. “Doneval is straight ahead,” Arobynn whispered, his breath hot on her skin. “Third box in from the stage, second row of seats.”
She immediately found the man she’d been assigned to kill. He was tall and middle-aged, with pale blond hair and tan skin. Not particularly handsome, but not an eyesore, either. Not heavy, but not toned. Aside from his periwinkle tunic—which, even from this distance, looked expensive—there was nothing remarkable about him.
There were a few others in the box. A tall, elegant woman in her late twenties stood near the partition curtain, a cluster of men around her. She held herself like a noble, though no diadem glittered in her lustrous, dark hair.
“Leighfer Bardingale,” Arobynn murmured, following her gaze. Doneval’s former wife—and the one who’d hired her. “It was an arranged marriage. She wanted his wealth, and he wanted her youth. But when they failed to have children and some of his less … desirable behavior was revealed, she managed to get out of the marriage, still young, but far richer.”
It was smart of Bardingale, really. If she planned to have him assassinated, then pretending to be his friend would help keep fingers from pointing her way. Though Bardingale might have looked the part of a polite, elegant lady, Celaena knew there had to be some ice-cold steel running through her veins. And an unyielding sense of dedication to her friends and allies—not to mention to the common rights of every human being. It was hard not to immediately admire her.
“And the people around them?” Celaena asked. Through a small gap in the curtains behind Doneval, she could glimpse three towering men, all clad in dark gray—all looking like bodyguards.
“Their friends and investors. Bardingale and Doneval still have some joint businesses together. The three men in the back are his guards.”
Celaena nodded, and might have asked him some other questions had Sam and Lysandra not filed into the box behind them, bidding farewell to Arobynn’s friend. There were three seats along the balcony rail, and three seats behind them. Lysandra, to Celaena’s dismay, sat next to her as Arobynn and Sam took the rear seats.
“Oh, look at how many people are here,” Lysandra said. Her low-cut ice-blue dress did little to hide her cleavage as she craned her neck over the rail. Celaena blocked out Lysandra’s prattling as the courtesan began tossing out important names.
Celaena could sense Sam behind her, feel his gaze focused solely on the gold velvet curtains concealing the stage. She should say something to him—apologize or thank him or just … say something kind. She felt him tensing, as if he, too, wanted to say something. Somewhere in the theater, a gong began signaling the audience to take their seats.
It was now or never. She didn’t know why her heart thundered the way it did, but she didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess herself as she twisted in her seat to look at him. She glanced once at his clothes and then said, “You look handsome.”
His brows rose, and she swiftly turned back around in her seat, focusing hard on the curtain. He looked better than handsome, but … Well, at least she’d said one nice thing. She’d tried to be nice. Somehow, it didn’t make her feel that much better.
Celaena folded her hands in the lap of her bloodred gown. It wasn’t cut nearly as low as Lysandra’s, but with the slender sleeves and bare shoulders, she felt particularly exposed to Sam. She’d curled and swept her hair over one shoulder, certainly not to hide the scar on her neck.
Doneval lounged in his seat, eyes on the stage. How could a man who looked so bored and useless be responsible for not just the fate of several lives, but of his entire country? How could he sit in this theater and not hang his head in shame for what he was about to do to his fellow countrymen, and to whatever slaves would be caught up in it? The men around Bardingale kissed her cheeks and departed for their own boxes. Doneval’s three thugs watched the men very, very closely as they left. Not lazy, bored guards, then. Celaena frowned.
But then the chandeliers were hauled upward into the dome and dimmed, and the crowd quieted to hear the opening notes as the orchestra began playing. In the dark, it was nearly impossible to see Doneval.
Sam’s hand brushed her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin as he brought his mouth close to her ear and murmured, “You look beautiful. Though I bet you already know that.” She most certainly did.
She gave him a sidelong glare, and found him grinning as he leaned back into his seat.
Suppressing her urge to smile, Celaena turned toward the stage as the music established the setting for them. A world of shadows and mist. A world where creatures and myths dwelled in the dark moments before dawn.
Celaena went still as the gold curtain drew back, and everything she knew and everything she was faded away to nothing.
The music annihilated her.
The dancing was breathtaking, yes, and the story it told—a legend of a prince seeking to rescue his bride, and the cunning bird he captured to help him to do it—was certainly lovely, but the music.
Had there ever been anything more beautiful, more exquisitely painful? She clenched the arms of the seat, her fingers digging into the velvet as the music hurtled toward its finale, sweeping her away in a flood.
With each beat of the drum, each trill of the flute and blare of the horn, she felt all of it along her skin, along her bones. The music broke her apart and put her back together, only to rend her asunder again and again.
And then the climax, the compilation of all the sounds she had loved best, amplified until they echoed into eternity. As the final note swelled, a gasp broke from her, setting the tears in her eyes spilling down her face. She didn’t care who saw.
Then, silence.
The silence was the worst thing she’d ever heard. The silence brought back everything around her. Applause erupted, and she was on her feet, crying still as she clapped until her hands ached.
“Celaena, I didn’t know you had a shred of human emotion in you,” Lysandra leaned in to whisper. “And I didn�
�t think the performance was that good.”
Sam gripped the back of Lysandra’s chair. “Shut up, Lysandra.”
Arobynn clicked his tongue in warning, but Celaena remained clapping, even as Sam’s defense sent a faint trickle of pleasure through her. The ovation continued for a while, with the dancers emerging from the curtain again and again to bow and be showered with flowers. Celaena clapped through it all, even as her tears dried, even as the crowd began shuffling out.
When she remembered to glance at Doneval, his box was empty.
Arobynn, Sam, and Lysandra left their box, too, long before she was ready to end her applause. But after she finished clapping, Celaena remained, staring toward the curtained stage, watching the orchestra begin to pack up their instruments.
She was the last person to leave the theater.
There was another party at the Keep that night—a party for Lysandra and her madam and whatever artists and philosophers and writers Arobynn favored at that moment. Mercifully, it was confined to one of the drawing rooms, but laughter and music still filled the entirety of the second floor. On the carriage ride home, Arobynn had asked Celaena to join them, but the last thing she wanted to see was Lysandra being fawned over by Arobynn, Sam, and everyone else. So she told him that she was tired and needed to sleep.
She wasn’t tired in the least, though. Emotionally drained, perhaps, but it was only ten thirty, and the thought of taking off her gown and climbing into bed made her feel rather pathetic. She was Adarlan’s Assassin; she’d freed slaves and stolen Asterion horses and won the respect of the Mute Master. Surely she could do something better than go to bed early.
The Assassin and the Underworld Page 3