The Assassin and the Pirate Lord (6 page)

“What do you mean?”

Sam traced circles in the sand between them. “I mean, why send the two of us here in the first place? His excuse for sending us was a lie. We're not instrumental to this deal. He could just as easily have sent two other assassins who aren't at each other's throats all the time.”

“What are you implying?”

Sam shrugged. “Perhaps Arobynn wanted us out of Rifthold right now. Needed to get us out of the city for a month.”

A chill went through her. “Arobynn wouldn't do that.”

“Wouldn't he?” Sam asked. “Did we ever find out why Ben was there the night Gregori got captured?”

“If you're implying that Arobynn somehow set Ben up to—”

“I'm not implying anything. But some things don't add up. And there are questions that haven't been answered.”

“We're not supposed to question Arobynn,” she murmured.

“And since when do you ever follow orders?”

She stood up. “Let's get through the next few days. Then we'll consider whatever conspiracy theories you're inventing.”

Sam was on his feet in an instant. “I don't have any
theories
. Just questions that you should be asking yourself, too.
Why
did he want us gone this month?”

“We can trust Arobynn.” Even as the words left her mouth, she felt stupid for saying them.

Sam stooped to pick up his boots. “I'm going back to the tavern. Are you coming?”

“No. I'm staying here for a little longer.”

Sam gave her an appraising look, but nodded. “We're to examine Arobynn's slaves on their ship at four tomorrow afternoon. Try not to stay out here the whole night. We need all the rest we can get.”

She didn't reply, and turned away before she could see him head toward the golden lights of Skull's Bay.

She walked along the curve of the shoreline, all the way to the lone watchtower. After studying it from the shadows—the two catapults near its top, the giant chain anchored above them—she continued on. She walked until there was nothing in the world but the grumble and hiss of the waves, the sigh of the sand beneath her feet, and the glare of the moon on the water.

She walked until a surprisingly cold breeze swept past her. She halted.

Slowly, Celaena turned north, toward the source of the breeze, which smelled of a faraway land she hadn't seen in eight years. Pine and snow—a city still in winter's grasp. She breathed it in, staring across the leagues of lonely, black ocean, seeing, somehow, that distant city that had once, long ago, been her home. The wind ripped the strands of hair from her braid, lashing them across her face. Orynth. A city of light and music, watched over by an alabaster castle with an opal tower so bright it could be viewed for miles.

The moonlight vanished behind a thick cloud. In the sudden dark, the stars glowed brighter.

She knew all the constellations by heart, and she instinctively sought out the Stag, Lord of the North, and the immovable star that crowned his head.

Back then, she hadn't had any choice. When Arobynn offered her this path, it was either that, or death. But now …

She took a shuddering breath. No, she was as limited in her choices as she'd been when she was eight years old. She was Adarlan's Assassin, Arobynn Hamel's protégée and heir—and she would always be.

It was a long walk back to the tavern.

After yet another miserably hot and sleepless night, Celaena spent the following day with Sam, walking through the streets of Skull's Bay. They kept their pace leisurely, pausing at various vendors' carts and popping into the occasional shop, but all the while physically tracing each step of their plan, going over every detail that they'd need to orchestrate perfectly.

From the fishermen along the docks, they learned that the rowboats tied to the piers belonged to nobody in particular, and that tomorrow's morning tide came in just after sunrise. Not advantageous, but better than midday.

From flirting with the harlots along the main street, Sam learned that every once in a while, Rolfe covered the tab for all the pirates in his service, and the revelry lasted for days. Sam also picked up a few other pointers that he refused to tell Celaena about.

And from the half-drunk pirate languishing in an alley, Celaena learned how many men guarded the slave ships, what manner of weapons they carried, and where the slaves were kept.

When four o'clock rolled around, Celaena and Sam were standing aboard the ship Rolfe had promised them, watching and counting as the slaves stumbled onto the wide deck. Ninety-three. Mostly men, most of them young. The women were a broader range of ages, and there were only a handful of children, just as Rolfe had said.

“Do they meet your refined tastes?” Rolfe asked as he approached.

“I thought you said there'd be more,” she replied coldly, keeping her eyes upon the chained slaves.

“We had an even hundred, but seven died on the journey.”

She bit back the anger that flared inside her. Sam, knowing her far too well for her liking, cut in. “And how many can we expect to lose on the journey to Rifthold?” His face was relatively neutral, though his brown eyes flashed with annoyance. Fine—he was a good liar. As good as she was, maybe.

Rolfe ran a hand through his dark hair. “Don't you two ever stop
questioning
? There's no way of predicting how many slaves you'll lose. Just keep them watered and fed.”

A low growl slipped through her teeth, but Rolfe was already walking to his group of guards. Celaena and Sam followed him, observing as the last of the slaves were shoved onto the deck.

“Where are the slaves from yesterday?” Sam asked.

Rolfe waved a hand. “Most are on that ship, and will leave tomorrow.” He pointed to a nearby ship and ordered one of the slave drivers to start the inspection.

They waited until a few slaves had been looked over, offering remarks on how fit a slave was, where he'd fetch a good price in Rifthold. Each word tasted fouler than the last.

“Tonight,” she said to the Pirate Lord, “you can guarantee that this ship's protected?” Rolfe sighed loudly and nodded. “That watchtower across the bay,” she pressed. “I assume that they'll also be responsible for monitoring this ship, too?”

“Yes,” Rolfe snapped. Celaena opened her mouth, but he interrupted. “And before you ask, let me say that we change the watch just before dawn.” So they'd have to target the morning watch instead, to avoid any alarm being raised at dawn—at high tide. Which was a slight hitch in her plan, but they could easily fix it.

“How many of the slaves speak our language?” she asked.

Rolfe raised a brow. “Why?”

She could feel Sam tense beside her, but she shrugged. “It might add to their value.”

Rolfe studied her a bit too closely, then whirled to face a slave woman standing nearby. “Do you speak the common tongue?”

Her eyes widened, and she looked this way and that, clutching her scraps of clothing to her—a mix of fur and wool undoubtedly worn to keep her warm in the frigid mountain passes of the White Fangs.

“Do you understand what I'm saying?” Rolfe demanded. The woman lifted her shackled hands. Raw, red skin lay around the iron.

“I think the answer is no,” Sam offered.

Rolfe glared at him, then walked through the stables. “Can any of you speak the common tongue?” He repeated himself, and was about to turn back when an older Eyllwe man—reed thin and covered with cuts and bruises—stepped forward.

“I can,” he said.

“That's it?” Rolfe barked at the slaves. “No one else?” Celaena approached the man who had spoken, committing his face to memory. He recoiled at her mask and her cloak.

“Well, at least he might fetch a higher price,” Celaena said over her shoulder to Rolfe. Sam summoned Rolfe with a question about the mountain-woman in front of him, providing enough distraction. “What's your name?” Celaena asked the slave.

“Dia.” His long, frail fingers trembled slightly.

“You're fluent?”

He nodded. “My—my mother was from Bellhaven. My father was a merchant from Banjali. I grew up with both languages.”

And he'd probably never worked a day in his life. How had
he
gotten caught up in this mess? The other slaves on the deck hung back, huddling together, even some of the larger men and women whose scars and bruises marked them as fighters—prisoners of war. Had they already seen enough of slavery to break them? For both her sake and theirs, she hoped not.

“Good,” she said, and strode away.

Hours later, no one noticed—or if they did, they certainly didn't care—when two cloaked figures slipped into two rowboats and headed toward the slave ships hovering several hundred yards offshore. A few lanterns illuminated the behemoth vessels, but the moon was bright enough for Celaena to easily make out the
Golden Wolf
as she rowed toward it.

To her right, Sam rowed as quietly as he could to the
Loveless
, where the slaves from yesterday were being held. Silence was their only hope and ally, though the town behind them was already in the midst of revelry. It hadn't taken long for word to get out that Arobynn Hamel's assassins had opened a celebratory tab at the tavern, and even as they had strode to the docks, pirates were already streaming the other way toward the inn.

Panting through her mask, Celaena's arms ached with each stroke. It wasn't the town she was worried about, but the solitary watchtower to her left. A fire burned in its jagged turret, faintly illuminating the catapults and the ancient chain across the narrow bay mouth. If they were to be caught, the first alarm would be sounded from there.

It might have been easier to escape now—take down the watchtower, overpower the slave ships, and set sail—but the chain was only the first in a line of defenses. The Dead Islands were nearly impossible to navigate at night, and at low tide … They'd get a few miles and run aground on a reef or a sandbank.

Celaena drifted the last few feet to the
Golden Wolf
and grasped the rung of a wooden ladder to keep the boat from thudding too hard against the hull.

They were better off at first light tomorrow, when the pirates would be too drunk or unconscious to notice, and when they had high tide on their side.

Sam flashed a compact mirror, indicating he'd made it to the
Loveless
. Catching the light in her own mirror, she signaled him back, then flashed twice, indicating that she was ready.

A moment later, Sam returned the same signal. Celaena took a long, steadying breath. It was time.

Nimble as a cat and smooth as a snake, Celaena climbed the wooden ladder built into the side of the ship.

The first guard didn't notice she was upon him until her hands were around his neck, striking the two points that sent him into unconsciousness. (After all, she was an assassin, not a murderer.) He slumped to the deck, and she caught him by his filthy tunic, softening his fall. Quiet as mice, quiet as the wind, quiet as the grave.

The second guard, stationed at the helm, saw her coming up the staircase. He managed to emit a muffled cry before the pommel of her dagger slammed into his forehead, knocking him out, too. Not as neat, and not as quiet: he hit the deck with a thud that made the third guard, stationed at the prow, whirl to see.

But it was shadowy, and there were yards of ship between them. Celaena crouched low to the deck, covering the fallen guard's body with her cloak.

“Jon?” the third guard called across the deck. Celaena winced at the sound. Not too far away, the
Loveless
was silent.

Celaena grimaced at the reek from Jon's unwashed body.

“Jon?” the guard said, and thumping steps followed. Closer and closer. He'd see the first guard soon.

Three … Two … One …

“What in
hell
?” The guard tripped over the first guard's prostrate body.

Celaena moved.

She swung over the railing fast enough that the guard didn't look up until she'd landed behind him. All it took was a swift blow to the head and she was easing his body down atop the first guard's. Her heart hammering through every inch of her, she sprinted to the prow of the ship. She flashed the mirror three times. Three guards down.

Nothing.

“Come on, Sam.” She signaled again.

Far too many heartbeats later, a signal greeted her. The air rushed from her lungs in a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The guards on the
Loveless
were unconscious, too.

She signaled once. The watchtower was still quiet. If the guards were up there, they hadn't seen anything. They had to be quick, had to get this done before their disappearance was noticed.

The guard outside the captain's quarters managed to kick the wall hard enough to wake the dead before she knocked him out, but it didn't stop Captain Fairview from squealing when she slipped into his office and shut the door.

When Fairview was secured in the brig, gagged and bound and fully aware that his cooperation and the cooperation of his guards meant his life, she crept down to the cargo area.

The passages were cramped, but the two guards at the door still didn't notice her until she took the liberty of rendering them unconscious.

Silently as she could, she grabbed a lantern hanging from a peg on the wall and opened the door.

The ceiling was so low she almost grazed it with her head. The slaves had all been chained, sitting, to the floor. No latrines, no source of light, no food or water.

The slaves murmured, squinting against the sudden brightness of the torchlight leaking in from the hallway.

Celaena took the ring of keys she'd stolen from the captain's quarters and stepped into the cargo chamber. “Where is Dia?” she asked. They said nothing, either because they didn't understand, or out of solidarity.