The Assassin and the Underworld (9 page)

Behind him, four guards loitered by an iron door—and beyond it was another door, through which she could see a set of steps that led upward. It must be a door into the cellar of the house. Several of the older houses in Rifthold had such doors: escape routes during wars, ways to sneak in scandal-worthy guests, or merely an easy way to deposit the household's waste. The double doors were to keep out the water—airtight, and made long ago by skilled craftsmen who had used magic to coat the thresholds with water-repellent spells.

“There are a lot of rooms to break into in this house,” the bodyguard said. “Why'd you choose the upstairs study? And where's your friend?”

She gave him a crooked grin, all the while taking in the cavernous sewer around her. The water was rising. She didn't want to think about what was floating in it.

“Will this be an interrogation, then torture,
then
death?” she asked him. “Or am I getting the order wrong?”

The man grinned right back at her. “Smart-ass. I like it.” His accent was thick, but she understood him well enough. He braced his hands on either arm of her chair. With her own arms bound behind her back, she only had the freedom to move her face. “Who sent you?”

Her heart beat wildly, but her smile didn't fade. Withstanding torture was a lesson she'd learned long ago. “Why do you assume anyone
sent
me? Can't a girl be independent?”

The wooden chair groaned under his weight as he leaned so close their noses were almost touching. She tried not to inhale his hot breath. “Why else would a little bitch like you break into this house? I don't think you're after jewels or gold.”

She felt her nostrils flare. But she wouldn't make her move—not until she knew she had no chance to glean information from
him
.

“If you're going to torture me,” she drawled, “then get it started. I don't particularly enjoy the smell down here.”

The man pulled back, his grin unfaltering. “Oh, we're not going to torture you. Do you know how many spies and thieves and assassins have tried to take down Doneval? We're beyond asking questions. If you don't want to talk, then fine. Don't talk. We've learned how to deal with you filth.”

“Philip,” one of the guards said, pointing with his sword down the dark tunnel of the sewer. “We've got to go.”

“Right,” Philip said, turning back to Celaena. “See, I figure if someone was foolish enough to send you
here
, then you must be expendable. And I don't think anyone will look for you when they flood the sewers, not even your friend. In fact, most people are staying off the streets right now. You capital-dwellers don't like getting your feet dirty, do you?”

Her heart pounded harder, but she didn't break his gaze. “Too bad they won't get
all
the trash,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“No,” he said, “but they'll get you. Or at least, the river will get your remains, if the rats have left enough.” Philip patted her cheek hard enough to sting. As if the sewers had heard him, a rush of water began sounding from the darkness.

Oh, no. No
.

He splashed back to the landing where the guards stood. She watched them stride out through the second door, then up the stairs, then—

“Enjoy your swim,” Philip said, and slammed the iron door shut behind him.

Darkness and water. In the moments it took for her to adjust to the dim streetlight leaking in through the grate high, high above, she could feel a sudden gush of water against her legs. It was up to her lap in an instant.

She cursed violently and wriggled hard against the ropes. But as the ropes cut into her arms, she remembered: the built-in blades. It was a testament to the inventor's skill that Philip hadn't found them, even though he must have searched her. Yet the bindings were almost too tight for her to release them …

She twisted her wrists, fighting for any shred of space to flick her hand. The water pooled around her waist. They must have built the sewer dam at the other end of the city; it would take a few minutes before it completely flooded this part.

The rope wouldn't budge, but she flicked her wrist, doing as the master tinkerer had told her, again and again. Then, at last, the whine and splash of the blade as it shot out. Pain danced down the side of her hand, and she swore. She'd cut herself on the damn thing. Thankfully, it didn't feel deep.

Immediately she started on the ropes, her arms aching while she twisted them as far as she could to angle against the bindings. They should have used iron shackles.

There was a sudden release of tension around her middle, and she almost fell face-first into the swirling black water as the rope gave. Two heartbeats later, the rest of the ropes were off, though she cringed as she plunged her hands into the filthy water to cut her feet from the chair legs.

When she stood, the water was at her thighs. And cold. Icy, icy cold. She felt things sliding against her as she splashed for the landing, struggling to keep upright in the fierce current. Rats were being swept past by the dozen, their squeals of terror barely audible over the roar of the water. By the time she reached the stone steps, the water was already pooling there, too. She tried the iron handle. It was locked. She tried to plunge one of her blades in alongside the threshold, but it bounced back. The door was sealed so tightly that nothing was getting through.

She was trapped.

Celaena looked down the length of the sewer. Rain was still pouring in from above, but the streetlights were bright enough that she could see the curved walls. There had to be some ladder to the street—there
had
to be.

She couldn't see any—not near her. And the grates were so high up that she'd have to wait until the sewer filled entirely before trying her luck. But the current was so strong that she'd probably be swept away.

“Think,” she whispered. “Think, think.”

Water rose higher on the landing, lapping now at her ankles.

She kept her breathing calm. Panicking would accomplish nothing. “
Think
.” She scanned the sewer.

There might be a ladder, but it would be farther down. That meant braving the water—and the dark.

On her left, the water rose endlessly, rushing in from the other half of the city. She looked to her right. Even if there wasn't a grate, she might make it to the Avery.

It was a very, very big “might.”

But it was better than waiting here to die.

Celaena sheathed her blades and plunged into the smelly, oily water. Her throat closed up, but she willed herself to keep from vomiting. She was
not
swimming through the entire capital's refuse. She was
not
swimming through rat-infested waters. She was
not going to die
.

The current was faster than she expected, and she pulled against it. Grates passed overhead, ever nearer, but still too distant. And then there, on the right! Midway up the wall, still several feet above the water line, was a small tunnel opening. It was made for a solitary worker. Rainwater leaked out over the lip of the tunnel—somewhere, it
had
to lead to the street.

She swam hard for the wall, fighting to keep the current from sweeping her past the tunnel. She hit the wall and clung to it, easing down the side. The tunnel was high up enough that she had to reach, her fingers aching as they dug into the stone. But she had a grip, and even though pain lanced through her nails, she hauled herself into the narrow passage.

It was so small inside that she had to lie flat on her belly. And it was full of mud and the gods knew what else, but there—far ahead—was a shaft of lamplight. An upward tunnel that led to the street. Behind her, the sewer continued flooding, the roaring waters near deafening. If she didn't hurry, she'd be trapped.

With the ceiling so low, she had to keep her head down, her face nearly in the putrid mud as she stretched out her arms and
pulled
. Inch by inch, she dragged herself through the tunnel, staring at the light ahead.

Then the water reached the level of the tunnel. Within moments, it swept past her feet, past her legs, then her abdomen, and then her face. She crawled faster, not needing light to tell how bloody her hands were. Each bit of grit inside the cuts was like fire.
Go
, she thought to herself with each thrust and pull of her arms, each kick of her feet.
Go
,
go
,
go
. The word was the only thing that kept her from screaming. Because once she started screaming … that was when she'd concede to death.

The water in the passage was a few inches deep by the time she hit the upward tunnel, and she nearly sobbed at the sight of the ladder. It was probably fifteen feet to the surface. Through the circular holes in the large grate she could see a hovering streetlamp. She forgot the pain in her hands as she climbed the rusted ladder, willing it not to break. Water filled the tunnel bottom, swirling with debris at her feet.

She was quickly at the top, and even allowed herself a little smile as she pushed against the round grate.

But it didn't budge.

She balanced her feet on the rickety ladder and pushed with both hands. It still didn't move. She angled her body on the upper rung so that her back and shoulders braced against the grate and threw herself into it. Nothing. Not a groan, not a hint of metal giving way. It had to be rusted shut. She pounded against it until she felt something crack in her hand. Her vision flashed with pain, black and white sparks dancing, and she made sure the bone wasn't broken before pounding again. Nothing.
Nothing
.

The water was close now, its muddy froth so near that she could reach down and touch it.

She threw herself into the grate one last time. It didn't move.

If people were off the streets until the mandatory flooding was over … Rain water poured into her mouth, her eyes, her nose. She banged against the metal, praying for anyone to hear her over the roar of the rain, for anyone to see the muddy, bloodied fingers straining upward from an ordinary city grate. The water hit her boots. She shoved her fingers through the grate holes and began screaming.

She screamed until her lungs burned, screamed for help, for anyone to hear. And then—

“Celaena?”

It was a shout, and it was close, and Celaena sobbed when she heard Sam's voice, nearly muffled by the rain and roaring waters beneath her. He said he'd come by after helping with Lysandra's party—he must have been on his way to or from Doneval's house. She wriggled her fingers through the grate hole, pounding with her other hand against the grate. “
HERE! In the sewer!
”

She could feel the rumble of steps, and then … “Holy gods.” Sam's face swam into view through the grate. “I've been looking for you for twenty minutes,” he said. “Hold on.” His callused fingers latched onto the holes. She saw them go white with strain, saw his face turn red, then … He swore.

The water had reached her calves. “Get me the hell out of here.”

“Shove with me,” he breathed, and as he pulled, she pushed. The grate wouldn't move. They tried again, and again. The water hit her knees. By whatever luck, the grate was far enough away from Doneval's house that the guards couldn't hear them.

“Get as high as you can,” he barked. She already was, but she didn't say anything. She caught the flash of a knife and heard the scrape of a blade against the grate. He was trying to loosen the metal by using the blade as a lever. “Push on the other side.”

She pushed. Dark water lapped at her thighs.

The knife snapped in two.

Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “
Come on
.”

The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said.

“I'm trying!”

“Sam,” she repeated.

“No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “
No
.”

He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn't going to come—not fast enough.

She'd never given much thought to how she'd die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she'd struck with the gods that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.

“Please,” Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the grate, then tried to wedge another dagger under the lid. “Please don't.”

She knew he wasn't speaking to her.

The water hit her neck.

“
Please
,” Sam moaned, his fingers now touching hers. She'd have one last breath. Her last words.

“Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam,” she whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.

“
Breathe!
” Someone was roaring as they pounded on her chest. “
Breathe!
”

And just like that, her body seized, and water rushed out of her. She vomited onto the cobblestones, coughing so hard her whole body convulsed.

“Oh, gods,” Sam moaned. Through her streaming eyes, she found him kneeling beside her, his head hung between his shoulders as he braced his palms on his knees. Behind him, two women were exchanging relieved, yet confused, expressions. One of them held a crowbar. Beside her lay the grate cover, and around them spilled water from the sewer.

She vomited again.

She took three baths in a row and ate food only with the intention of vomiting it up to clear out any trace of the vile liquid inside of her. She plunged her torn, aching hands into a vat of hard liquor, biting down her scream but savoring the disinfectant burning through whatever had been in that water. Once that proved calming to her repulsion, she ordered her bathtub filled with the same liquor and submerged herself in it, too.