The Assassin and the Underworld (5 page)

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.

So she slipped into one of the music rooms, where it was quiet enough that she could only hear a burst of laughter every now and then. The other assassins were either at the party or off on some mission or other. Her rustling dress was the only sound as she folded back the cover of the pianoforte. She'd learned to play when she was ten—under Arobynn's orders that she find at least
one
refined skill other than ending lives—and had fallen in love immediately. Though she no longer took lessons, she played whenever she could spare a few minutes.

The music from the theater still echoed in her mind. Again and again, the same cluster of notes and harmonies. She could feel them humming under the surface of her skin, beating in time with her heart. What she wouldn't give to hear the music once more!

She played a few notes with one hand, frowned, adjusted her fingers, and tried again, clinging to the music in her mind. Slowly, the familiar melody began to sound right.

But it was only a few notes, and it was the pianoforte, not an orchestra; she pounded the keys harder, working out the riffs. It was
almost
there, but not quite right. She couldn't remember the notes as perfectly as they sounded in her head. She didn't feel them the way she'd felt them only an hour ago.

She tried again for a few minutes, but eventually slammed the lid shut and stalked from the room. She found Sam lounging against a wall in the hallway. Had he been listening to her fumble with the pianoforte this whole time?

“Close, but not quite the same, is it?” he said. She gave him a withering look and started toward her bedroom, even though she had no desire to spend the rest of the night sitting in there by
herself. “It must drive you mad, not being able to get it just the way you remember it.” He kept pace beside her. His midnight-blue tunic brought out the golden hues in his skin.

“I was just fooling around,” she said. “I can't be the best at
everything
, you know. It wouldn't be fair to the rest of you, would it?” Down the hall, someone had started a merry tune on the instruments in the gaming room.

Sam chewed on his lip. “Why didn't you trail Doneval after the theater? Don't you have only four days left?” She wasn't surprised he knew; her missions weren't usually
that
secret.

She paused, still itching to hear the music once more. “Some things are more important than death.”

Sam's eyes flickered. “I know.”

She tried not to squirm as he refused to drop her stare. She knew his words implied something, though she didn't know what. “Why are you helping Lysandra?” She didn't know why she asked it.

Sam frowned. “She's not all that bad, you know. When she's away from other people, she's … better. Don't bite off my head for saying it, but even though you taunt her about it, she didn't choose this path for herself—just like us.” He shook his head. “She just wants your attention—and acknowledgment of her existence.”

She clenched her jaw. Of course he'd spent plenty of time alone with Lysandra. And of course he'd find her sympathetic. “I don't particularly care
what
she wants. You still haven't answered my question.
Why
are you helping her?”

He shrugged. “Because Arobynn told me to. And since I have no desire to have my face beaten to a pulp again, I'm not going to question him.”

“He—he hurt you that badly, too?”

Sam let out a low laugh, but didn't reply until after a servant bustled past, carrying a tray full of wine bottles. They were probably better off talking in a room where they'd be less likely to be overheard, but the idea of being utterly alone with him made her pulse pound.

“I was unconscious for a day, and dozed on and off for three more after that,” Sam said.

Celaena hissed a violent curse.

“He sent you to the Red Desert,” Sam went on, his words soft and low. “But
my
punishment was having to watch him beat you that night.”

“Why?” Another question she didn't mean to ask.

He closed the distance between them, standing near enough now that she could see the fine gold thread detailing on his tunic. “After what we went through in Skull's Bay, you should know the answer.”

She didn't
want
to know the answer, now that she thought about it. “Are you going to make a Bid for Lysandra?”

Sam burst out laughing. “Bid? Celaena, I don't have any money. And the money that I
do
have is going toward paying back Arobynn. Even if I
wanted
to—”

“
Do
you want to?”

He gave her a lazy grin. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I'm curious whether Arobynn's beating damaged your brain, that's why.”

“Afraid she and I had a summer romance?” That insufferable grin was still there.

She could have raked her nails down his face. Instead, she picked another weapon. “I hope you did.
I
certainly enjoyed myself this summer.”

The smile faded at that. “What do you mean?”

She brushed an invisible fleck of dust off her red gown. “Let's just say that the son of the Mute Master was
far
more welcoming than the other Silent Assassins.” It wasn't quite a lie. Ilias
had
tried to kiss her, and she
had
basked in his attention, but she hadn't wanted to start anything between them.

Sam's face paled. Her words had struck home, but it wasn't as satisfying as she thought it would be. Instead, the mere fact that it
had
affected him made her feel … feel … Oh, why had she even said
anything
about Ilias?

Well, she knew precisely why. Sam began to turn away, but she grabbed his arm. “Help me with Doneval,” she blurted. Not that she needed it, but this was the best she could offer him in exchange for what he'd done for her. “I'll—I'll give you half of the money.”

He snorted. “Keep your money. I don't need it. Ruining yet another slave-trade agreement will be enough for me.” He studied her for a moment, his mouth quirking to the side. “You're sure you want my help?”

“Yes,” she said. It came out a bit strangled. He searched her eyes for any sign of mockery. She hated herself for making him distrust her that much.

But he nodded at last. “Then we'll start tomorrow. We'll scope out his house. Unless you've already done that?” She shook her head. “I'll come by your room after breakfast.”

She nodded. There was more she wanted to say to him, and she didn't want him to go, but her throat had closed up, too full of all those unspoken words. She made to turn away.

“Celaena.” She looked back at him, her red gown sweeping around her. His eyes shone as he flashed her a crooked grin. “I missed you this summer.”

She met his stare unflinchingly, returning the smile as she said, “I hate to admit it, Sam Cortland, but I missed your sorry ass, too.”

He merely chuckled before he strode toward the party, his hands in his pockets.

Crouched in the shadows of a gargoyle the following afternoon, Celaena shifted her numb legs and groaned softly. She usually opted to wear a mask, but with the rain, it would have limited her vision even further. Going without, though, made her feel somewhat exposed.

The rain also made the stone slick, and she took extra care while adjusting her position. Six hours. Six hours spent on this rooftop, staring across the street at the two-story house Doneval had rented for the duration of his stay. It was just off the most fashionable avenue in the city, and was enormous, as far as city homes went. Made of solid white stone and capped with green clay shingles, it looked just like any other well-off home in the city, right down to its intricately carved windowsills and doorways. The front lawn was manicured, and even in the rain, servants bustled around the property, bringing in food, flowers, and other supplies.

That was the first thing she noticed—that people came and went all day. And there were guards everywhere. They looked closely at the faces of the servants who entered, scaring the daylights out of some of them.

There was a whisper of boots against the ledge, and Sam nimbly slipped into the shadows of the gargoyle, returning from scouting the other side of the house.

“A guard on every corner,” Celaena murmured as Sam settled down beside her. “Three at the front door, two at the gate. How many did you spot in the back?”

“One on either side of the house, three more by the stables. And they don't look like cheap hands for hire, either. Will we take them out, or slip past them?”

“I'd prefer not to kill them,” she admitted. “But we'll see if we can slip past when the time comes. Seems like they're rotating every two hours. The off-duty guards go into the house.”

“Doneval's still away?”

She nodded, inching nearer to him. Of course, it was just to absorb his warmth against the freezing rain. She tried not to notice when he pressed closer to her, too. “He hasn't returned.”

Doneval had left nearly an hour ago, closely flanked by a hulking brute of a man who looked hewn from granite. The bodyguard inspected the carriage, examined the coachman and the footman, held the door until Doneval was ensconced inside, and then slipped in himself. It seemed like Doneval knew very well just how coveted and delicate his list of slave sympathizers was. She'd seldom seen this kind of security.

They'd already surveyed the house and grounds, noting everything from the stones of the building to what sort of latches sealed the windows to the distance between the nearby rooftops and the roof of the house itself. Even with the rain, she could see well enough into the second-story window to make out a long hallway. Some servants came out of rooms bearing sheets and blankets—bedrooms, then. Four of them. There was a supply closet near the stairwell at the center of the hall. From the light that spilled into the hallway, she knew that the main stairwell had to be open and grand, just like the one in the Assassins' Keep. Not a chance of hiding, unless they found the servants' passages.

They got lucky, though, when she spied a servant going into the one of the second-floor rooms, carrying a pile of the afternoon papers. A few minutes later, a maid lugged in a bucket and tools for sweeping out a fireplace, and then a manservant brought in what looked like a bottle of wine. She hadn't seen anyone changing the linens in that room, and so they took special notice of the servants who entered and exited.

It had to be the private study that Arobynn had mentioned. Doneval probably maintained a formal study on the first floor, but if he were doing dark dealings, then moving his real business to a more hidden quarter of the house would make sense. But they still needed to figure out what time the meeting would take place. Right now, it could be at any point on the arranged day.

“There he is,” Sam hissed. Doneval's carriage pulled up, and the hulking bodyguard got out, scouring the street for a moment before he motioned for the businessman to emerge. Celaena had a feeling that Doneval's rush to get into the house wasn't just about the downpour.

They ducked back into the shadows again. “Where do you suppose he went?” Sam asked.

She shrugged. His former wife's Harvest Moon party was tonight; perhaps that had something to do with it, or the street festival that Melisande was hosting in the center of the city today. She and Sam were now crouching so close together that a toasty warmth was spreading up one side of her. “Nowhere good, I'm sure.”

Sam let out a breathy laugh, his eyes still on the house. They were silent for a few minutes. At last, he said, “So, the Mute Master's son …”

She almost groaned.

“How close were you, exactly?” He focused on the house, though she noticed that he'd fisted his hands.

Just tell him the truth, idiot!

“Nothing happened with Ilias. It was just a bit of flirtation, but … nothing happened,” she said again.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “nothing happened with Lysandra. And nothing is going to. Ever.”

“And
why
, exactly, do you think I care?” It was her turn to keep her eyes fixed on the house.

He nudged her with his shoulder. “Since we're
friends
now, I assumed you'd want to know.”

She was grateful that her hood concealed most of her burning-hot face. “I think I preferred it when you wanted to kill me.”

“Sometimes I think so, too. Certainly made my life more interesting. I wonder, though—if I'm helping you, does it mean I get to be your Second when you run the Assassin's Guild? Or does it just mean that I can boast that the famed Celaena Sardothien finally finds me worthy?”