The Assassin and the Underworld (7 page)

He stared at her for a heartbeat, then nodded.

Celaena took a long breath through her nose as she mounted the steps and walked into the raised alcove where Doneval sat.

The four courtesans noticed her, but Celaena kept her eyes on Doneval, who looked up from the neck of the courtesan currently on the receiving end of his affection. His bodyguard was alert, but didn't stop her. Fool. She forced a little smile to her lips as Doneval's eyes roved freely. Up and down, down and up.
That
was why she'd opted for a lower-cut dress than usual. It made her stomach turn, but she stepped closer, only the low-lying table between her and Doneval's sofa. She gave a low, elegant curtsy. “My lord,” she purred.

He was not a lord in any sense, but a man like that had to enjoy fancy titles, however unearned they might be.

“May I help you?” he said, taking in her dress. She was definitely more covered-up than the courtesans around him. But sometimes there was more allure in
not
seeing everything.

“Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt,” she said, tilting her head so that the light from the lanterns caught in her eyes and set them sparkling. She knew well enough which of her features men tended to notice—and appreciate—most. “But my uncle is a merchant, and he speaks so highly of you that I …” She now looked at the courtesans as if suddenly noticing them, as if she were a good, decent girl realizing the company he kept and trying not to become too embarrassed.

Doneval seemed to sense her discomfort and sat up, removing his hand from the thigh of the girl next to him. The courtesans all went a bit rigid, shooting daggers in her direction. She might have grinned at them had she not been so focused on her act.

“Go on, my dear,” Doneval said, his eyes now fixed on hers. Really, it was too easy.

She bit her lip, tucking her chin down—demure, shy, waiting to be plucked. “My uncle is sick tonight and couldn't attend, but he was
so
looking forward to meeting you, and I thought I might make an introduction on his behalf, but I'm so terribly sorry to have interrupted you.” She made to turn, counting down the heartbeats until …

“No, no—I'd be pleased to make the acquaintance. What is your name, my dear girl?”

She turned back, letting the light catch in her blue-gold eyes again. “Dianna Brackyn; my uncle is Erick Brackyn …” She glanced at the courtesans, giving her best alarmed-innocent-maiden look. “I—I truly don't wish to interrupt you.” Doneval kept drinking her in. “Perhaps, if it would not be an inconvenience or an impertinence, we could call on you? Not tomorrow or the day after, since my uncle has some contract with the court in Fenharrow to work on, but the day after
that
? Three days from now, is what I mean.” She made a little coo of a laugh.

“It wouldn't be an impertinence in the least,” Doneval crooned, leaning forward. Mentioning Fenharrow's wealthy court had done the trick. “In fact, I much admire you for having the nerve to approach me. Not many men would, let alone young women.”

She almost rolled her eyes, but she just fluttered her eyelashes ever so slightly. “Thank you, my lord. What time would be convenient for you?”

“Ah,” Doneval said. “Well, I have dinner plans that night.” Not a hint of nerves, or a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. “But I am free for breakfast, or lunch,” he added with a growing smile.

She sighed dramatically. “Oh, no—I think I might have committed myself then, actually. What about tea that afternoon? You say you have dinner plans, but perhaps something before … ? Or maybe we'll just see you at the theater that night.”

He fell silent, and she wondered if he was growing suspicious. But she blinked, tucking her arms into her sides enough that her chest squeezed a bit more out of her neckline. It was a trick she'd used often enough to know it worked. “I would certainly like to have tea,” he said at last, “but I'll also be at the theater after my dinner.”

She gave him a bright smile. “Would you like to join us in our box? My uncle has two of his contacts from Fenharrow's court joining us, but I just
know
he'd be honored to have you with us as well.”

He cocked his head, and she could practically see the cold, calculating thoughts churning behind his eyes.
Come on
, she thought,
take the bait
… Contacts with a wealthy businessman and Fenharrow's court should be enough.

“I'd be delighted,” he said, giving her a smile that reeked of trained charm.

“I'm sure you have a fine carriage to escort you to the theater, but we'd be doubly honored if you'd use ours. We could pick you up after your dinner, perhaps?”

“I'm afraid my dinner is rather late—I'd hate to make you or your uncle tardy for the theater.”

“Oh, it wouldn't be a problem. What time does your dinner begin—or end, I suppose is the better question!” A giggle. A twinkle in her eye that suggested the sort of curiosity in what a man like Doneval would be eager to show an inexperienced girl. He leaned farther forward. She wanted to claw at the skin his gaze raked over with such sensual consideration.

“The meal should be over within an hour,” he drawled, “if not sooner; just a quick meal with an old friend of mine. Why don't you stop by the house at eight thirty?”

Her smile grew, genuine this time. Seven thirty, then. That's when the deal would occur. How could he be
that
foolish, that arrogant? He deserved to die just for being so irresponsible—so easily lured by a girl who was far too young for him.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Of course.” She rattled off details about her uncle's business and how well they'd get along, and soon she was curtsying again, giving him another long look at her cleavage before she walked away. The courtesans were still glaring at her, and she could feel Doneval's hungry gaze on her disappearing form until the crowd swallowed her up. She made a show of going over to the food, keeping up the demure maiden façade, and when Doneval finally stopped watching her, she let out a sigh.
That
had certainly gone well. She loaded a plate with food that made her mouth water—roast boar, berries and cream, warm chocolate cake …

From a few feet away, she found Leighfer Bardingale watching her, the woman's dark eyes remarkably sad. Pitying. Or was it regret for what she had hired Celaena to do? Bardingale approached, brushing against Celaena's skirts on her way to the buffet table, but Celaena chose not to acknowledge her. Whatever Arobynn had told the woman about her, she didn't care to know. Though she
would
have liked to know what perfume Bardingale was wearing; it smelled like jasmine and vanilla.

Sam was suddenly beside her, appearing in that silent-as-death way of his. “Did you get what you needed?” He followed Celaena as she added more food to her plate. Leighfer took a few scoops of berries and a dollop of cream and disappeared back into the crowd.

Celaena grinned, glancing to the alcove where Doneval had now returned to his hired company. She deposited her plate on the table. “I certainly did. It appears he's unavailable at seven thirty in the evening that day.”

“So we have our meeting time,” Sam said.

“Indeed we do.” She turned to him with a triumphant smirk, but Sam was now watching Doneval, his frown growing as the man continued pawing at the girls around him.

The music shifted, becoming livelier, the twins' voices rising in a wraithlike harmony. “And now that I got what I came here for, I want to dance,” Celaena said. “So drink up, Sam Cortland. We're not washing our hands in blood tonight.”

She danced and danced. The beautiful youths of Melisande had gathered near the platform that held the twin singers, and Celaena had gravitated toward them. Bottles of sparkling wine passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth. Celaena swigged from all of them.

Around midnight, the music changed, going from organized, elegant dances to a frenzied, sensual sound that had her clapping her hands and stomping her feet in time. The Melisanders seemed eager to writhe and fling themselves about. If there were music and movements that embodied the wildness and recklessness and immortality of youth, they were here, on this dance floor.

Doneval remained where he sat on the cushions, drinking bottle after bottle. He never once glanced in her direction; whoever he had thought Dianna Brackyn was, she was now forgotten. Good.

Sweat ran along every part of her body, but she flung her head back, arms upraised, content to bask in the music. One of the courtesans on the swings flew by so low that their fingers brushed. The touch sent sparks shooting through her. This was more than a party: it was a performance, an orgy, and a call to worship at the altar of excess. Celaena was a willing sacrifice.

The music shifted again, a riot of pounding drums and the staccato notes of the twins. Sam kept a respectful distance—dancing alone, occasionally detangling himself from the arms of a girl who saw his beautiful face and tried to seize him for her own. Celaena tried not to smirk when she saw him politely, but firmly, telling the girl to find someone else.

Many of the older partygoers had long since left, ceding the dance floor to the young and beautiful. Celaena focused long enough to check on Doneval—and to see Arobynn sitting with Bardingale in another one of the nearby alcoves. A few others sat with them, and though glasses of wine littered their table, they all had lowered brows and tight-lipped expressions. While Doneval had come here to feast off his former wife's fortune, it seemed like she had other thoughts on how to enjoy her party. What sort of strength had it taken to accept that assassinating her former husband was the only option left? Or was it weakness?

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 of 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 …