“You’ll soon discover that,” she said. “But I have need of you.”
His brows lifted. “Me?”
“I have come to inquire after a man.” Her voice was scratchy and hollow. “A man who recently earned a large sum of gold. For the assassination of the Eyllwe princess. He goes by the name of Grave. I need to know where he is.”
“I don’t know anything.” The barkeep’s face turned even paler.
She reached into a pocket and pulled out a glittering fistful of ancient jewels and gold. All eyes watched them now.
“Allow me to repeat my question, barkeep.”
The assassin who called himself Grave ran.
He didn’t know how long she’d been hunting him. It had been well over a week since he’d killed the princess; a week, and no one had even looked his way. He thought he’d gotten away with it—and had even started wondering whether he should have been more creative with the body, if he should have left some sort of calling card behind. But all that had changed tonight.
He’d been drinking at the counter of his favorite tavern when the packed room had suddenly gone quiet. He’d turned to see her in the doorway as she called out his name, looking more wraith than human. His name hadn’t even finished echoing in the room before he burst into a sprint, escaping through the back exit and into the alley. He couldn’t hear footsteps, but he knew she was behind him, melting in and out of shadows and mist.
He took alleys and side streets, leaping over walls, zigzagging across the slums. Anything to shake her, to wear her down. He’d make his final stand in a quiet street. There, he would take out the blades strapped to his skin and make her pay for the way she’d humiliated him in the competition. The way she had sneered at him, the way she’d broken his nose and tossed her handkerchief onto his chest.
Haughty, stupid bitch.
He staggered as he rounded a corner, his breath ragged and raw. He had only three daggers hidden on him. He’d make them count, though. When she’d appeared at the tavern, he had immediately taken note of the broadsword hovering over one of her shoulders and the assortment of gleaming, wicked-looking blades strapped to her hips. But he could make her pay, even if he only had a few blades.
Grave was halfway down the cobblestone alley when he realized it was a dead end, the far wall too high to climb. Here, then. He’d soon have her begging for mercy before he cut her into little, little pieces. Drawing one of his daggers, he smiled and turned to the open street behind him.
Blue mist drifted by, and a rat scurried across the narrow passage. There was no noise, only the sounds of distant revelry. Perhaps he had lost her. Those royal fools had made the biggest mistake of their lives when they crowned her Champion. His client had said as much when he’d hired Grave.
He waited a moment, still watching the open street entrance, and then allowed himself to breathe, surprised to find that he was a little disappointed.
King’s Champion indeed. It hadn’t been hard to lose her at all. And now he would go home, and he’d receive another job offer in a matter of days. And then another. And another. His client had promised him that the offers would come. Arobynn Hamel would curse the day he had rejected Grave from the Assassins Guild for being too cruel with his prey.
Grave chuckled, flipping his dagger in his hands. Then she appeared.
She came through the fog, no more than a sliver of darkness. She didn’t run—she just walked with that insufferable swagger. Grave surveyed the buildings surrounding them. The stone was too slippery, and there were no windows.
One step at a time, she approached. He would really, really enjoy making her suffer as much as the princess had.
Smiling, Grave retreated to the end of the alley, only stopping when his back hit the stone wall. In a narrower space, he could overpower her. And in this forgotten street, he could take his own sweet time doing what he wanted.
Still she approached, and the sword at her back whined as she drew it. The moonlight glinted off the long blade. Probably a gift from her princeling lover.
Grave pulled his second dagger from his boot. This wasn’t a frilly, ridiculous competition run by nobility. Here, any rules applied.
She didn’t say anything when she neared.
And Grave didn’t say anything to her as he rushed at her, swiping for her head with both blades.
She stepped aside, dodging him with maddening ease. Grave lunged again. But faster than he could follow she ducked and slashed her sword across his shins.
He hit the wet ground before he felt the pain. The world flashed black and gray and red, and agony tore at him. A dagger still left in his hand, he scuttled backward toward the wall. But his legs wouldn’t respond, and his arms strained to pull him through the damp filth.
“Bitch,” he hissed. “Bitch.” He hit the wall, blood pouring from his legs. Bone had been sliced. He would not be able to walk. He could still find a way to make her pay, though.
She stopped a few feet away and sheathed her sword. She drew a long, jeweled dagger.
He swore at her, the filthiest word he could think of.
She chuckled, and faster than a striking asp, she had one of his arms against the wall, the dagger glinting.
Pain ripped through his right wrist, then his left as it, too, was slammed into the stone. Grave screamed—truly screamed—as he found his arms pinned to the wall by two daggers.
His blood was nearly black in the moonlight. He thrashed, cursing her again and again. He would bleed to death unless he pulled his arms from the wall.
With otherworldly silence, she crouched before him and lifted his chin with another dagger. Grave panted as she brought her face close to his. There was nothing beneath the cowl—nothing of this world. She had no face.
“Who hired you?” she asked, her voice like gravel.
“To do what?” he asked, almost sobbing. Maybe he could feign innocence. He could talk his way out, convince this arrogant whore he had nothing to do with it …
She turned the dagger, pressing it into his neck. “To kill Princess Nehemia.”
“N-n-no one. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And then, without even an intake of breath, she buried another dagger he hadn’t realized she’d been holding into his thigh. So deep he felt the reverberation as it hit the cobblestones beneath. His scream shattered out of him, and Grave writhed, his wrists rising farther on the blades.
“Who hired you?” she asked again. Calm, so calm.
“Gold,” Grave moaned. “I have gold.”
She drew yet another dagger and shoved it into his other thigh, piercing again to the stone. Grave shrieked—shrieked to gods who did not save him. “Who hired you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
After a heartbeat, she withdrew the daggers from his thighs. He almost soiled himself at the pain, at the relief.
“Thank you.” He wept, even as he thought of how he would punish her. She sat back on her heels and stared at him. “Thank you.”
But then she brought up another dagger, its edge serrated and glinting, and hovered it close to his hand.
“Pick a finger,” she said. He trembled and shook his head. “Pick a finger.”
“P-please.” A wet warmth filled the seat of his pants.
“Thumb it is.”
“N-no. I … I’ll tell you everything!” Still, she brought the blade closer, until it rested against the base of his thumb. “Don’t! I’ll tell you everything!”
Chapter 36
Dorian was just starting to feel his temper fray after hours of debate when the doors to his father’s council room were thrown open and Celaena prowled in, her dark cape billowing behind her. All twenty men at the table fell silent, including his father, whose eyes went straight to the thing dangling from Celaena’s hand. Chaol was already striding across the room from his post by the door. But he, too, stopped when he beheld the object she carried.
A head.
The man’s face was still set in a scream, and there was something vaguely familiar about the grotesque features and mousy brown hair that she gripped. It was hard to be certain as it swung from her gloved fingers.
Chaol put a hand on his sword, his face pale as death. The other guards in the room drew their blades, but didn’t move—wouldn’t move, until Chaol or the king commanded them.
“What is this?” the king demanded. The councilmen and assembled lords were gaping.
But Celaena was smiling as her eyes locked onto one of the ministers at the table, and she walked right toward him.
And no one, not even Dorian’s father, said anything as she set the severed head atop the minister’s stack of papers.
“I believe this belongs to you,” she said, releasing her grip on the hair. The head lolled to the side with a thud. Then she patted—patted—the minister’s shoulder before rounding the table and plopping into an empty chair at one end, sprawling across it.
“Explain yourself,” the king growled at her.
She crossed her arms, smiling at the minister, whose face had turned green as he stared at the head before him.
“I had a little chat with Grave about Princess Nehemia last night,” she said. Grave, the assassin from the competition—and Minister Mullison’s champion. “He sends his regards, minister. He also sends this.” She tossed something onto the long table: a small golden bracelet, engraved with lotus blossoms. Something Nehemia would have worn. “Here’s a lesson for you, Minister, from one professional to another: cover your tracks. And hire assassins without personal connections to you. And perhaps try not to do it so soon after you’ve publicly argued with your target.”
Mullison was looking at the king with pleading eyes. “I didn’t do this.” He recoiled from the severed head. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. I’d never do something like this.”
“That’s not what Grave said,” Celaena crooned. Dorian could only stare at her. This was different from the feral creature she’d become the night Nehemia had died. What she was right now, the edge on which she was balancing … Wyrd help them all.
But then Chaol was at her chair, grasping her elbow. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Celaena looked up at him and smiled sweetly. “Your job, apparently.” She shook off his grip with a thrash, then got out of her seat, stalking around the table. She pulled a piece of paper out of her tunic and tossed it in front of the king. The impertinence in that throw should have earned her a trip to the gallows, but the king said nothing.
Following her around the table, a hand still on his sword, Chaol watched her with a face like stone. Dorian began praying they wouldn’t come to blows—not here, not again. If it riled his magic and his father saw … Dorian wouldn’t even think of that power when he was in a room with so many potential enemies. He was sitting beside the person who would give the order to have him put down.
His father took the paper. From where he sat, Dorian could see that it was a list of names, at least fifteen long.
“Before the unfortunate death of the princess,” she said, “I took it upon myself to eliminate some traitors to the crown. My target,” she said, and he knew his father was aware she meant Archer, “led me right to them.”