The Assassin and the Pirate Lord (3 page)

“Believe me,” Rolfe said, crossing his arms, “I have enough experience. You should be more concerned about your master. Investing in the slave trade is a guaranteed profit, but he might need to expend more of his resources than he'd like in order to keep our business from reaching the wrong ears.”

Her stomach turned over, but she feigned disinterest as best she could and said, “Arobynn is a shrewd businessman. Whatever you can supply, he'll make the most of it.”

“For his sake, I hope that's true. I don't want to risk my name and reputation for nothing.” Rolfe stood, and Celaena and Sam rose with him. “I'll have the documents signed and returned to you tomorrow. For now …” He pointed toward the door. “I have two rooms prepared for you.”

“We only need one,” she interrupted.

Rolfe's eyebrows rose suggestively.

Beneath her mask, her face burned, and Sam choked on a laugh. “One room,
two
beds.”

Rolfe chuckled, striding to the door and opening it for them. “As you wish. I'll have baths drawn for you as well.” Celaena and Sam followed him out into the narrow, dark hallway. “You could both use one,” he added with a wink.

It took all of her self-restraint to keep from punching him below the belt.

It took them five minutes to search the cramped room for any spy-holes or signs of danger; five minutes for them to lift the framed paintings on the wood-paneled walls, tap at the floorboards, seal the gap between the door and the floor, and cover the window with Sam's weatherworn black cloak.

When she was certain that no one could either hear or see her, Celaena ripped off her hood, untied the mask from her face, and whirled to face him.

Sam, seated on his small bed—which seemed more like a cot—raised his palms to her. “Before you bite my head off,” he said, keeping his voice quiet just in case, “let me say that I went into that meeting knowing as little as you.”

She glared at him, savoring the fresh air on her sticky, sweaty face. “Oh, really?”

“You're not the only one who can improvise.” Sam kicked off his boots and hoisted himself farther onto the bed. “That man's as much in love with himself as you are; the last thing we need is for him to know that he had the upper hand in there.”

Celaena dug her nails into her palms. “Why would Arobynn send us here without telling us the true reason? Reprimand Rolfe … for a crime that had nothing to do with him! Maybe Rolfe was lying about the content of the letter.” She straightened. “
That
might very well be—”

“He was
not
lying about the content of the letter, Celaena,” Sam said. “Why would he bother? He has more important things to do.”

She grumbled a slew of nasty words and paced, her black boots clunking against the uneven floorboards. Pirate Lord indeed.
This
was the best room he could offer them? She was Adarlan's Assassin, the right arm of Arobynn Hamel—not some backstreet harlot!

“Regardless, Arobynn has his reasons.” Sam stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes.

“Slaves,” she spat, dragging a hand through her braided hair. Her fingers caught in the plait. “What business does Arobynn have getting involved in the slave trade? We're better than that—we don't
need
that money!”

Unless Arobynn was lying; unless all of his extravagant spending was done with nonexistent funds. She'd always assumed that his wealth was bottomless. He'd spent a king's fortune on her upbringing—on her wardrobe alone. Fur, silk, jewels, the weekly cost of just keeping herself
looking
beautiful … Of course, he'd always made it clear that she was to pay him back, and she'd been giving him a cut of her wages to do so, but …

Maybe Arobynn just wanted to increase what wealth he already had. If Ben were alive, he wouldn't have stood for it. Ben would have been just as disgusted as she was. Being hired to kill corrupt government officials was one thing, but taking prisoners of war, brutalizing them until they stopped fighting back, and sentencing them to a lifetime of slavery …

Sam opened an eye. “Are you going to take a bath, or can I go first?”

She hurled her cloak at him. He caught it with a single hand and tossed it to the ground. She said, “I'm going first.”

“Of course you are.”

She shot him a dirty look and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Of all the dinners she'd ever attended, this was by far the worst. Not because of the company—which was, she grudgingly admitted, somewhat interesting—and not because of the food, which looked and smelled wonderful, but simply because she couldn't
eat
anything, thanks to that confounded mask.

Sam, of course, seemed to take second helpings of everything solely to mock her. Celaena, seated at Rolfe's left, half hoped the food was poisoned. Sam had only served himself from the array
of meats and stews after watching Rolfe eat some himself, so the likelihood of that wish coming true was rather low.

“Mistress Sardothien,” Rolfe said, his dark brows rising high on his forehead. “You must be famished. Or is my food not pleasing enough for your refined palate?”

Beneath the cape and the cloak and the dark tunic, Celaena was not just famished, but also hot and tired. And thirsty. Which, combined with her temper, usually turned out to be a lethal combination. Of course, they couldn't see any of that.

“I'm quite fine,” she lied, swirling the water in her goblet. It lapped against the sides, taunting her with each rotation. Celaena stopped.

“Maybe if you took off your mask, you might have an easier time eating,” Rolfe said, taking a bite of roast boar. “Unless what lies beneath it will make us lose our appetites.”

The five other pirates—all captains in Rolfe's fleet—sniggered, and she straightened.

“Keep talking like that”—Celaena gripped the stem of her goblet—“and I might give
you
a reason to wear a mask.” Sam kicked her under the table, and she kicked him back, a deft blow to his shins—hard enough that he choked on his water.

Some of the assembled captains stopped laughing, but Rolfe chuckled. She rested her gloved hand atop the stained dining table. The table was freckled with burns and deep gouges; it had clearly seen its fair share of brawls. Didn't Rolfe have
any
taste for luxury? Perhaps he wasn't so well off, if he was resorting to the slave trade. But Arobynn … Arobynn was as rich as the King of Adarlan himself. Why did he need to stoop so low?

Rolfe flicked his sea-green eyes to Sam, who was frowning yet again. “Have you seen her without the mask?”

Sam, to her surprise, grimaced. “Once.” He gave her an all too believably wary look. “And that was enough.”

Rolfe studied Sam for a heartbeat, then took another bite of his meat. “Well, if you won't show me your face, then perhaps you'll indulge us with the tale of how, exactly, you became protégée to Arobynn Hamel?”

“I trained,” she said dully. “For years. We aren't all lucky enough to have a magic map inked on our hands. Some of us had to climb to the top.”

Rolfe stiffened, and the other pirates halted their eating. He stared at her long enough for Celaena to want to squirm, and then set down his fork.

Sam leaned a bit closer to her, but, she realized, only to see better as Rolfe laid both of his hands palm-up on the table for her to observe.

Together, his hands formed a map of their continent—and only that.

“This map hasn't moved for eight years.” His voice was a low growl. A chill went down her spine. Eight years. Exactly the time that had passed since the Fae had been banished and executed, when Adarlan had conquered and enslaved the rest of the continent and magic had disappeared. “Don't think,” Rolfe continued, withdrawing his hands, “that I haven't had to claw and kill my way as much as you.”

If he was nearly thirty, then he'd probably done even more killing than she had. And, from the many scars on his hands and face, it was easy to tell that he'd done a
lot
of clawing.

“Good to know we're kindred spirits,” she said. If Rolfe was already used to getting his hands dirty, then trading slaves wasn't a stretch. But he was a filthy pirate. They were Arobynn Hamel's assassins—educated, wealthy, refined. Slavery was beneath them.

Rolfe gave her that crooked smile. “Do you act like this because it's actually in your nature, or is it just because you're afraid of dealing with people?”

“I'm the world's greatest assassin.” She lifted her chin. “I'm not afraid of anyone.”

“Really?” Rolfe asked. “Because I'm the world's greatest pirate, and I'm afraid of a great number of people. That's how I've managed to stay alive for so long.”

She didn't deign to reply.
Slave-mongering pig.
He shook his head, smiling in exactly the same way she smirked at Sam when she wanted to piss him off.

“I'm surprised Arobynn hasn't made you check your arrogance,” Rolfe said. “Your companion seems to know when to keep his mouth shut.”

Sam coughed loudly and leaned forward. “How did you become Pirate Lord, then?”

Rolfe ran a finger along a deep groove in the wooden table. “I killed every pirate who was better than me.” The three other captains—all older, all more weathered and far less attractive than him—huffed, but didn't refute it. “Anyone arrogant enough to think they couldn't possibly lose to a young man with a patchwork crew and only one ship to his name. But they all fell, one by one. When you get a reputation like that, people tend to flock to you.” Rolfe glanced between Celaena and Sam. “You want my advice?” he asked her.

“No.”

“I'd watch your back around Sam. You might be the best, Sardothien, but there's always someone waiting for you to slip.”

Sam, the traitorous bastard, didn't hide his smirk. The other pirate captains chuckled.

Celaena stared hard at Rolfe. Her stomach twisted with hunger. She'd eat later—swipe something from the tavern kitchens. “You want
my
advice?”

He waved a hand, beckoning her to go on.

“Mind your own business.”

Rolfe gave her a lazy smile.

“I don't mind Rolfe,” Sam mused later into the pitch darkness of their room. Celaena, who'd taken first watch, glared toward where his bed lay against the far wall.

“Of course you don't,” she grumbled, relishing the free air on her face. Seated on her bed, she leaned against the wall and picked at the threads on the blanket. “He told you to assassinate me.”

Sam chuckled. “It
is
wise advice.”

She rolled up the sleeves of her tunic. Even at night, this rotten place was scorching hot. “Perhaps it isn't a wise idea for
you
to go to sleep, then.”

Sam's mattress groaned as he turned over. “Come on—you can't take a bit of teasing?”

“Where my life is concerned? No.”

Sam snorted. “Believe me, if I came home without you, Arobynn would skin me alive. Literally. If I'm going to kill you, Celaena, it'll be when I can actually get away with it.”

She scowled. “I appreciate that.” She fanned her sweating face with a hand. She'd sell her soul to a pack of demons for a cool breeze right now, but they had to keep the window covered—unless she wanted some spying pair of eyes to discover what she looked like. Though, now that she thought about it, she'd
love
to see the look on Rolfe's face if he found out the truth. Most already knew that she was a young woman, but if he knew he was dealing with a sixteen-year-old, his pride might never recover.

They'd only be here for three nights; they could both go without a little sleep if it meant keeping her identity—and their lives—safe.

“Celaena?” Sam asked into the dark. “
Should
I worry about going to sleep?”

She blinked, then laughed under her breath. At least Sam took her threats somewhat seriously. She wished she could say the same for Rolfe. “No,” she said. “Not tonight.”

“Some other night, then,” he mumbled. Within minutes, he was out.

Celaena rested her head against the wooden wall, listening to the sound of his breathing as the long hours of the night stretched by.

Even when her turn to sleep came, Celaena lay awake. In the hours she'd spent watching over their room, one thought had become increasingly problematic.

The slaves.

Perhaps if Arobynn had sent someone else—perhaps if it was just a business deal that she found out about later, when she was too busy to care—she might not have been so bothered by it. But to send her to retrieve a shipment of slaves … people who had done nothing wrong, only dared to fight for their freedom and the safety of their families …

How could Arobynn expect her to do that? If Ben had been alive, she might have found an ally in him; Ben, despite his profession, was the most compassionate person she knew. His death left a vacancy that she didn't think could ever be filled.

She sweated so much that her sheets became damp, and slept so little that when dawn came, she felt like she'd been trampled by a herd of wild horses from the Eyllwe grasslands.

Sam finally nudged her—a none-too-gentle prodding with the pommel of his sword. He took one look at her and said, “You look horrible.”

Deciding to let that set the tone for the day, Celaena got out of bed and promptly slammed the bathroom door.

When she emerged a while later, as fresh as she could get using only the washbasin and her hands, she understood one thing with perfect clarity.

There was no way—no way in any realm of Hell—that she was going to bring those slaves to Rifthold. Rolfe could keep them for all she cared, but she wouldn't be the one to transport them to the capital city.