The Assassin and the Underworld (11 page)

But she hadn't. She'd come back and let Arobynn shower her with gifts.

“And now that you're fine, Celaena, now that you've paid off your debt, I can't stay in Rifthold. Not after all the things he's done to us.”

She knew it was selfish, and horrible, but she whispered, “Please don't go.”

He let out an uneven breath. “You'll be fine without me. You always have been.”

Maybe once, but not now. “How can I convince you to stay?”

“You can't.”

She threw down the torch. “Do you want me to beg, is that it?”

“No—never.”

“Then tell me—”

“What more can I say?” he exploded, his whisper rough and harsh. “I've already told you everything—I've already told you that if I stay here, if I have to live with Arobynn, I'll snap his damned neck.”

“But why? Why can't you let it go?”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Because I love you!”

Her mouth fell open.

“I love you,” he repeated, shaking her again. “I have for
years
. And he
hurt
you and made me watch because he's always known how I felt, too. But if I asked you to pick, you'd choose Arobynn, and I. Can't. Take. It.”

The only sounds were their breathing, an uneven beat against the rushing of the sewer river.

“You're a damned idiot,” she breathed, grabbing the front of his tunic. “You're a moron and an ass and a
damned
idiot.” He looked like she had hit him. But she went on, and grasped both sides of his face, “Because I'd pick
you
.”

And then she kissed him.

She'd never kissed anyone. And as her lips met his and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against him, she honestly had no idea why she'd waited so long. His mouth was warm and soft, his body wondrously solid against hers, his hair silken as she threaded her fingers through it. Still, she let him guide her, forced herself to remember to breathe as he eased her lips apart with his own.

When she felt the brush of his tongue against hers, she was so full of lightning she thought she might die from the rush of it. She wanted more. She wanted
all
of him.

She couldn't hold him tight enough, kiss him fast enough. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat, so full of need she felt it in her core. Lower than that, actually.

She pushed him against the wall, and his hands roamed all over her back, her sides, her hips. She wanted to bask in the feeling—wanted to rip off her suit so she could feel his callused hands against her bare skin. The intensity of that desire swept her away.

She didn't give a damn about the sewers. Or Doneval, or Philip, or Arobynn.

Sam's lips left her mouth to travel along her neck. They grazed a spot beneath her ear and her breath hitched.

No, she didn't give a damn about anything right now.

It was nighttime when they left the sewers, hair disheveled and mouths swollen. He wouldn't let go of her hand during the long walk back to the Keep, and when they got there, she ordered the servants to send dinner for them to her room. Though they stayed up long into the night, doing a minimal amount of talking, their clothes remained on. Enough had happened today to change her life, and she was in no particular mood to alter yet another major thing.

But what had happened in the sewer …

Celaena lay awake that night, long after Sam had left her room, staring at nothing.

He loved her. For years. And he'd endured so much for her sake.

For the life of her, she couldn't understand why. She'd been nothing but horrible to him, and had repaid any kindness on his part with a sneer. And what she felt for him …

She
hadn't
been in love with him for years. Until Skull's Bay, she wouldn't have minded killing him.

But now … No, she couldn't think about this now. And she couldn't think about it tomorrow, either. Because tomorrow, they'd infiltrate Doneval's house. It was still risky, but the payoff … She couldn't turn down that money, not now that she would be supporting herself. And she wouldn't let the bastard Doneval get away with his slave-trade agreement, or blackmailing those who dared to stand against it.

She just prayed Sam wouldn't get hurt.

In the silence of her bedroom, she swore an oath to the moonlight that if Sam were hurt, no force in the world would hold her back from slaughtering everyone responsible.

After lunch the next afternoon, Celaena waited in the shadows beside the sewer door to the cellar. A ways down the tunnel, Sam also waited, his black suit making him almost invisible in the darkness.

With the household lunch just ending, it was a good bet that Celaena would soon have her best chance to slip inside. She'd been waiting for an hour already, each noise whetting the edge she'd been riding since dawn. She'd have to be quick and silent and ruthless. One mistake, one shout—or even a missing servant—might ruin everything.

A servant
had
to come down here to deposit the trash at some point soon. She pulled a little pocket watch out of her suit. Carefully, she lit a match to glance at the face. Two o'clock. She had
five hours until she needed to creep into Doneval's study to await the seven-thirty meeting. And she was willing to bet he wouldn't enter the study until then; a man like that would want to greet his guest at the door, to see the look on his partner's face as he led him through the opulent halls. Suddenly, she heard the first, interior door to the sewers groan, and footsteps and grunts sounded. Her trained ear heard the noises of one servant—female. Celaena blew out the match.

She pressed herself into the wall as the lock to the outer door snapped open, and the heavy door slid against the ground. She could hear no other footsteps, save for the woman who hauled a vat of garbage onto the landing. The servant was alone. The cellar above was empty, too.

The woman, too preoccupied with depositing the metal pail of garbage, didn't think to look to the shadows beside the door. She didn't even pause as Celaena slipped past her. Celaena was through both doors, up the stairs, and into the cellar before she even heard the plop and splatter of the trash landing in the water.

As Celaena rushed toward the darkest corner of the vast, dimly lit cellar, she took in as many details as she could. Countless barrels of wine and shelves crammed full of food and goods from across Erilea. One staircase leading up. No other servants to be heard, save for somewhere above her. The kitchen, probably.

The outer door slammed shut, the lock sounding. But Celaena was already crouched behind a giant keg of wine. The interior door also shut and locked. Celaena slid on the smooth black mask she'd brought with her, tossing the hood of her cloak over her hair. The sound of footsteps and light panting, and then the servant reappeared at the top of the sewer stairs, empty garbage pail creaking as it swung from one hand. She walked right by, humming to herself as she mounted the stairs that led toward the kitchen.

Celaena loosed a breath when the woman's footsteps faded, then grinned to herself. If Philip had been smart, he would have slit her throat in the sewer that night. Perhaps when she killed him, she'd let him know exactly how she got into the house.

When she was absolutely certain that the servant wasn't returning with a second pail of garbage, Celaena hurried toward the small set of steps that led down to the sewer. Quiet as a jackrabbit in the Red Desert, she unlocked the first door, crept through, then unlocked the second. Sam wouldn't sneak in until right before the meeting—or else someone might come down and discover him preparing the cellar for the fire that would serve as a distraction. And if someone found the two unlocked doors before then, it could just be blamed on the servant who'd dumped the trash.

Celaena carefully shut both doors, making sure the locks remained disabled, and then returned to her place in the shadows of the cellar's vast wine collection.

Then she waited.

At seven, she left the cellar before Sam could arrive with his torches and oil. The ungodly amount of alcohol stocked inside would do the rest. She just hoped he made it out before the fire blew the cellar to bits.

She needed to be upstairs and hidden before that happened—and before the exchange was made. Once the fire started a few minutes after seven thirty, some of the guards would be called downstairs immediately, leaving Doneval and his partner with far fewer men to protect them.

The servants were eating their evening meal, and from the laughter inside the sub-level kitchen, none of them seemed aware of the deal that was to occur three flights above them. Celaena crept past the kitchen door. In her suit, cloak, and mask, she was a mere shadow on the pale stone walls. She held her breath the entire way up the servants' narrow spiral staircase.

With her new suit, it was far easier to keep track of her weapons, and she slid a long dagger out of the hidden flap in her boot. She peered down the second floor hallway.

The wooden doors were all shut. No guards, no servants, no members of Doneval's household. She eased a foot onto the wooden floorboards. Where the hell were the guards?

Swift and quiet as a cat, she was at the door to Doneval's study. No light shone from beneath the door. She saw no shadows of feet, and heard no sound.

The door was locked. A minor inconvenience. She sheathed her dagger and pulled out two narrow bits of metal, wedging and jamming them into the lock until—
click
.

Then she was inside, door locked again, and she stared into the inky black of the interior. She lit a match. No one. Frowning, Celaena fished the pocket watch out of her suit.

She still had enough time to look around.

Celaena flicked out the match and rushed to the curtains, shutting them tight against the night outside. Rain still plinked faintly against the covered windows. She moved to the massive oak desk in the center of the room and lit the oil lamp atop it, dimming it until only a faint blue flame gave off a flicker of light. She shuffled through the papers on the desk. Newspapers, casual letters, receipts, the household expenses …

She opened every drawer in the desk. More of the same. Where were those documents?

Swallowing her violent curse, Celaena put a fist to her mouth. She turned in place. An armchair, an armoire, a hutch … She searched the hutch and armoire, but they had nothing. Just empty papers and ink. Her ears strained for any sound of approaching guards.

She scanned the books on the bookcase, tapping her fingers across the spines, trying to hear if any were hollowed out, trying to hear if—

A floorboard creaked beneath her feet. She was down on her knees in an instant, rapping on the dark, polished wood. She knocked all around the area, until she found a hollow sound.

Carefully, heart hammering, she dug her dagger between the floorboards and wedged it upward. Papers stared back at her.

She pulled them out, replaced the floorboard, and was back at the desk a moment later, spreading the papers before her. She'd only glance at them, just to be sure she had the right documents …

Her hands trembled as she flipped through the papers, one after another. Maps with red marks in random places, charts with numbers, and names—list after list of names and locations. Cities, towns, forests, mountains, all in Melisande.

These weren't just Melisanders opposed to slavery—these were locations for planned safe houses to smuggle slaves to freedom. This was enough information to get all these people executed or enslaved themselves.

And Doneval, that wretched bastard, was going to use this information to force those people to support the slave trade—or be turned over to the king.

Celaena gathered up the documents. She'd never let Doneval get away with this. Never.

She took a step toward the trick floorboard. Then she heard the voices.

She had the lamp off and the curtains opened in a heartbeat, swearing silently as she tucked the documents into her suit and hid in the armoire. It would only take a few moments before Doneval and his partner found that the documents were missing. But that was all she needed—she just had to get them in here, away from the guards, long enough to take them both down. The fire would start in the cellar any minute now, hopefully distracting many of the other guards, and hopefully happening before Doneval noticed the papers were gone. She left the armoire door open a crack, peering out.

The study door unlocked and then swung open.

“Brandy?” Doneval was saying to the cloaked and hooded man who trailed in behind him.

“No,” the man said, removing his hood. He was of average height and plain, his only notable features his sun-kissed face and high cheekbones. Who was he?

“Eager to get it over with?” Doneval chuckled, but there was a hitch to his voice.

“You could say that,” the man replied coolly. He looked about the room, and Celaena didn't dare move—or breathe—as his blue eyes passed over the armoire. “My partners know to start looking for me in thirty minutes.”

“I'll have you out in ten. I have to be at the theater tonight, anyway. There's a young lady I'm particularly keen to see,” Doneval said with a businessman's charm. “I take it that your associates are prepared to act quickly and give me a response by dawn?”

“They are. But show me your documents first. I need to see what you're offering.”

“Of course, of course,” Doneval said, drinking from the glass of brandy that he'd poured for himself. Celaena's hands became slick and her face turned sweaty under the mask. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?” When the man didn't respond, Doneval said with a grin, “Either way, I hope you've stopped by Madam Clarisse's establishment. I've never seen such fine girls in all my life.”

The man gave Doneval a distinctly displeased stare. Had Celaena not been here to kill them, she might have liked the stranger.