Assassin's Blade (49 page)

The clock struck eleven, and Celaena headed into the streets, wearing the suit the Master Tinkerer had made for her, plus several other weapons strapped to her body.

Sam should have been back by now. And even though there was still another hour until the time when they’d agreed she’d look for him if he hadn’t returned, if he was truly in trouble, then she certainly wasn’t going to sit around for another minute—

The thought sent her sprinting down alleys, heading toward Jayne’s house.

The slums were silent, but no more so than usual. Whores and barefoot orphans and people struggling to make a few honest coppers glanced at her as she ran past, no more than a shadow. She kept an ear out for any snippets of conversation that might suggest Farran was dead, but overheard nothing useful.

She slowed to a stalking gait, her steps near-silent on the cobblestones as she neared the wealthy neighborhood in which Jayne’s house stood. Several affluent couples were walking around, heading back from the theater, but there were no signs of a disturbance … Though if Farran had been killed, then surely Jayne would try to keep the assassination hidden for as long as possible.

She made a long circuit through the neighborhood, checking on all the points where Sam had planned to be. Not a spot of blood or sign of a struggle. She even dared to walk across the street from Jayne’s house. The house was brightly lit and almost merry, and the guards were at their posts, all looking bored.

Perhaps Sam had found out that Farran wasn’t leaving the house tonight. She might very well have missed him on his way home. He wouldn’t be pleased when he learned she’d gone out to find him, but he would have done the same for her.

Sighing, Celaena hurried back home.

CHAPTER
7

Sam wasn’t at the apartment.

But the clock atop the mantel read one in the morning.

Celaena stood before the embers of the fireplace and stared at the clock, wondering if she was somehow reading it wrong.

But it continued ticking, and when she checked her pocket watch, it also read one. Then two minutes past the hour. Then five minutes …

She threw more logs on the fire and took off her swords and daggers, but remained in the suit. Just in case.

She had no idea when she began pacing in front of the fire—and only realized it when the clock chimed two and she found herself still standing before the clock.

He would come home any minute.

Any minute.

Celaena jolted awake at the faint chime of the clock. She’d somehow wound up on the couch—and somehow fallen asleep.

Four o’clock.

She would go out again in a minute. Maybe he’d hidden in the Assassins’ Keep for the night. Unlikely, but … it was probably the safest place to hide after you’d killed Rourke Farran.

Celaena closed her eyes.

The dawn was blinding, and her eyes felt gritty and sore as she hurried through the slums, then the wealthy neighborhoods, scanning every cobblestone, every shadowed alcove, every rooftop for any sign of him.

Then she went to the river.

She didn’t dare breathe as she walked up and down the banks that bordered the slums, searching for anything. Any sign of Farran, or … or …

Or.

She didn’t let herself finish that thought, though crippling nausea gripped her as she scanned the banks and docks and sewer depositories.

He would be waiting for her at home. And then he’d chide her and laugh at her and kiss her. And then she’d dispatch Jayne tonight, and then they’d set sail on this river and then out to the nearby sea, and then be gone.

He would be waiting at home.

He’d be home.

Home.

Noon.

It couldn’t be noon, but it was. Her pocket watch was properly wound, and hadn’t once failed her in the years she’d had it.

Each of her steps up the stairs to her apartment was heavy and light—heavy and light, the sensation shifting with each heartbeat. She’d stop by the apartment only long enough to see if he’d returned.

A roaring silence hovered around her, a cresting wave that she’d been trying to outrun for hours. She knew that the moment the silence finally hit her, everything would change.

She found herself atop the landing, staring at the door.

It had been unlocked and left slightly ajar.

A strangled sort of noise broke out of her, and she ran the last few feet, barely noticing as she threw open the door and burst into the apartment. She was going to scream at him. And kiss him. And scream at him some more. A
lot
more. How
dare
he make her—

Arobynn Hamel was sitting on her couch.

Celaena halted.

The King of the Assassins slowly got to his feet. She saw the expression in his eyes and knew what he was going to say long before he opened his mouth and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

The silence struck.

CHAPTER
8

Her body started moving, walking straight toward the fireplace before she really knew what she was going to do.

“They thought he was still living in the Keep,” Arobynn said, his voice pitched at that horrible whisper. “They left him as a message.”

She reached the mantel and grabbed the clock from where it rested.

“Celaena,” Arobynn breathed.

She hurled the clock across the room so hard it shattered against the wall behind the dining table.

Its fragments landed atop the buffet table against the wall, breaking the decorative dishes displayed there, scattering the silver tea set she’d bought for herself.

“Celaena,” Arobynn said again.

She stared at the ruined clock, the ruined dishes and tea set. There
was no end to this silence. There would never be an end, only this beginning.

“I want to see the body.” The words came from a mouth she wasn’t sure belonged to her anymore.

“No,” Arobynn said gently.

She turned her head toward him, baring her teeth. “I
want to see the body
.”

Arobynn’s silver eyes were wide, and he shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

She had to start moving, had to start walking
anywhere
, because now that she was standing still … Once she sat down …

She walked out the door. Down the steps.

The streets were the same, the sky was clear, the briny breeze off the Avery still ruffled her hair. She had to keep walking. Perhaps … perhaps they’d sent the wrong body. Perhaps Arobynn had made a mistake. Perhaps he was lying.

She knew Arobynn followed her, staying a few feet behind as she strode across the city. She also knew that Wesley joined them at some point, always looking after Arobynn, always vigilant. The silence kept flickering in and out of her ears. Sometimes it’d stop long enough for her to hear the whinny of a passing horse, or the shout of a peddler, or the giggle of children. Sometimes none of the noises in the capital could break through.

There had been a mistake.

She didn’t look at the assassins guarding the iron gates to the Keep, or at the housekeeper who opened the giant double doors of the building, or at the assassins who milled about the grand entrance and who stared at her with fury and grief mingling in their eyes.

She slowed long enough for Arobynn—trailed by Wesley—to step in front of her, to lead the rest of the way.

The silence peeled back, and thoughts tumbled in. It had been a
mistake. And when she figured out where they were keeping him—where they were hiding him—she’d stop at nothing to find him. And then she’d slaughter them all.

Arobynn led her down the stone stairwell at the back of the entrance hall—the stairs that led into the cellars and the dungeons and the secret council rooms below.

The scrape of boots on stone. Arobynn in front of her, Wesley trailing behind.

Down and down, then along the narrow, dark passageway. To the door across from the dungeon entrance. She knew that door. Knew the room behind it. The mortuary where they kept their members until—No, it had been a mistake.

Arobynn took out a ring of keys and unlocked the door, but paused before opening it. “Please, Celaena. It’s better if you don’t.”

She elbowed past him and into the room.

The square room was small and lit with two torches. Bright enough to illuminate …

Illuminate …

Each step brought her closer to the body on the table. She didn’t know where to look first.

At the fingers that went the wrong way, at the burns and careful, deep slices in his flesh, at the face, the face she still knew, even when so many things had been done to destroy it beyond recognition.

The world swayed beneath her feet, but she kept upright as she finished the walk to the table and looked down at the naked, mutilated body she had—

She had—

Farran had taken his time. And though that face was in ruins, it betrayed none of the pain he must have felt, none of the despair.

This was some dream, or she had gone to Hell after all, because she
couldn’t
exist in the world where this had been done to him, where
she’d paced like an idiot all night while he suffered, while Farran tortured him, while he ripped out his eyes and—

Celaena vomited on the floor.

Footsteps, then Arobynn’s hands were on her shoulder, on her waist, pulling her away.

He was dead.

Sam was dead.

She wouldn’t leave him like this, in this cold, dark room.

She yanked out of Arobynn’s grasp. Wordlessly, she unfastened her cloak and spread it over Sam, covering the damage that had been so carefully inflicted. She climbed onto the wooden table and lay beside him, stretching an arm across his middle, holding him close.

The body still smelled faintly like Sam. And like the cheap soap she’d made him use, because she was so selfish that she couldn’t let him have her lavender soap.

Celaena buried her face in his cold, stiff shoulder. There was a strange, musky scent all over him—a smell that was so distinctly
not
Sam that she almost vomited again. It clung to his golden-brown hair, to his torn, bluish lips.

She wouldn’t leave him.

Footsteps heading toward the door—then the
snick
of it closing as Arobynn left.