“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.
Chapter Eight
“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.
She’d never feel clean again. Even after her fourth bath—which had been immediately after her liquor-bath—she felt like grime coated every part of her. Arobynn had cooed and fussed, but she’d ordered him out. She ordered everyone out. She’d take another two baths in the morning, she promised herself as she climbed into bed.
There was a knock on her door, and she almost barked at the person to go away, but Sam’s head popped in. The clock read past twelve, but his eyes were still alert. “You’re awake,” he said, slipping inside without so much as a nod of permission from her. Not that he needed it. He’d saved her life. She was in his eternal debt.
On the way home, he’d told her that after Lysandra’s Bidding rehearsal, he’d gone to Doneval’s house to see if she needed any help. But when he got there, the house was quiet—except for the guards who kept sniggering about something that had happened. He’d been searching the surrounding streets for any sign of her when he heard her screaming.
She looked at him from where she lay in bed. “What do you want?” Not the most gracious words to someone who had saved her life. But, hell, she was supposed to be better than him—and yet he had saved her! How could she say she was the best when she’d needed Sam to rescue her? The thought made her want to hit him.
He just smiled slightly. “I wanted to see if you were finally done with all the washing. There’s no hot water left.”
She frowned. “Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”
“Do I ever expect you to apologize for anything?”
In the candlelight, the lovely panes of his face seemed velvet-smooth and inviting. “You could have let me die,” she mused. “I’m surprised you weren’t dancing with glee over the grate.”
He let out a low laugh that traveled along her limbs, warming her. “No one deserves that sort of horrible death, Celaena. Not even you. And besides, I thought we were beyond that.”
She swallowed hard, but was unable to break his gaze. “Thank you for saving me.”
His brows rose. She’d said it once on their way back, but it had been a quick, breathless string of words. This time, it was different. Though her fingers ached—especially her broken nails— she reached for his hand. “And … And I’m sorry.” She made herself look at him, even as his features crossed into incredulity. “I’m sorry for involving you in what happened in Skull’s Bay. And for what Arobynn did to you because of it.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he somehow understood some great puzzle. He examined their linked hands, and she quickly let go.
The silence was suddenly too charged, his face too beautiful in the light. She lifted her chin and found him looking at the scar along her neck. The narrow ridge would fade—someday. “Her name was Ansel,” she said, her throat tightening. “She was my friend.” Sam slowly sat on the bed. And then the whole story came out.
Sam only asked questions when he needed clarification. The clock chimed one by the time she finished telling him about the final arrow she’d fired at Ansel, and how, even with her heart breaking, she’d given her friend an extra minute before releasing what would have been a killing shot. When she stopped speaking, Sam’s eyes were bright with sorrow and wonder.
“So, that was my summer,” she said with a shrug. “A grand adventure for Celaena Sardothien, isn’t it?”
But he merely reached out and ran his fingers down the scar on her neck, as if he could somehow erase the wound. “I’m sorry,” he said. And she knew he meant it.
“So am I,” she murmured. She shifted, suddenly aware of how little her nightgown concealed. As if he’d noticed, too, his hand dropped from her neck and he cleared his throat. “Well,” she said, “I suppose our mission just got a little more complicated.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
She shook off the blush his touch had brought to her face and gave him a slow, wicked smile. Philip had no idea who he’d just tried to dispatch, or of the world of pain that was headed his way. You didn’t try to drown Adarlan’s Assassin in a sewer and get away with it. Not in a thousand lifetimes. “Because,” she said, “my list of people to kill just got one person longer.”
Chapter Nine
She slept until noon, took the two baths she’d promised herself, and then went to Arobynn’s study. He was nursing a cup of tea as she opened the door.
“I’m surprised to see you out of the bathtub,” he said.
Telling Sam the story about her month in the Red Desert had reminded her of why she’d wanted so badly to come home this summer, and of what she had accomplished. She had no reason now to tiptoe around Arobynn—not after what he’d done, and what she’d been through. So Celaena merely smiled at the King of the Assassins as she held open the door for the servants outside. They carried in a heavy trunk. Then another. And another.
“Do I dare ask?” Arobynn massaged his temples.
The servants hurried out, and Celaena shut the door behind them. Without a word, she opened the lids of the trunks. Gold shone in the noontime sun.
She turned to Arobynn, clinging to the memory of what it had felt like to sit on the roof after the party. His face was unreadable.
“I think this covers my debt,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “And then some.”
Arobynn remained seated.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling sick. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
“I’d like to keep working with you,” she said carefully. He’d looked at her like this before—on the night he’d beaten her. “But you don’t own me anymore.”
His silver eyes flicked to the trunks, then to her. In a moment of silence that lasted forever, she stood still as he took her in. Then he smiled, a bit ruefully. “Can you blame me for hoping that this day would never come?”
She almost sagged with relief. “I mean it: I want to keep working with you.”
She knew in that moment that she couldn’t tell him about the apartment and that she was moving out—not right now. Small steps. Today, the debt. Perhaps in a few weeks, she could mention that she was leaving. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care that she was getting her own home.
“And I’ll always be happy to work with you,” he said, but remained seated. He took a sip from his tea. “Do I want to know where that money came from?”
She became aware of the scar on her neck as she said, “The Mute Master. Payment for saving his life.”
Arobynn picked up the morning paper. “Well, allow me to extend my congratulations.” He looked at her over the top of the paper. “You’re now a free woman.”
She tried not to smile. Perhaps she wasn’t free in the entire sense of the word, but at least he wouldn’t be able to wield the debt against her anymore. That would suffice for now.
“Good luck with Doneval tomorrow night,” he added. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“As long as you don’t charge me for it.”
He didn’t return her smile, and set down the paper. “I would never do that to you.” Something like hurt flickered in his eyes.
Fighting her sudden desire to apologize, she left his study without another word.
The walk back to her bedroom was long. She’d expected to crow with glee when she gave him the money, expected to strut around the Keep. But seeing the way he’d looked at her made all that gold feel … cheap.
A glorious start to her new future.
Though Celaena never wanted to set foot in the vile sewer again, she found herself back there that afternoon. There was still a river flowing through the tunnel, but the narrow walkway alongside it was dry, even with the rain shower that was now falling on the street above them.
An hour before, Sam had just showed up at her bedroom, dressed and ready to spy on Doneval’s house. Now he crept behind her, saying nothing as they approached the iron door she remembered all too well. She set down her torch beside the door and ran her hands along the worn, rusty surface.
“We’ll have to get in this way tomorrow,” she said, her voice barely audible above the gurgle of the sewer river. “The front of the house is too well-guarded now.”
Sam traced a finger through the groove between the door and the threshold. “Aside from finding a way to haul a battering ram down here, I don’t think we’re getting through.”
She shot him a dark look. “You could try knocking.”
Sam laughed under his breath. “I’m sure the guards would appreciate that. Maybe they’d invite me in for an ale, too. That is, after they finished pumping my gut full of arrows.” He patted the firm plane of his stomach. He was wearing the suit Arobynn had forced him to buy, and she tried not to look too closely at how well it displayed his form.
“So we can’t get in this door,” she murmured, sliding her hand along it again. “Unless we figure out when the servants dump the trash.”
“Unreliable,” he countered, still studying the door. “The servants might empty the trash whenever they feel like it.”
She swore and glanced about the sewer. What a horrible place to have almost died. She certainly hoped that she’d run into Philip tomorrow. That arrogant ass wouldn’t see what was coming until she was right in front of him. He hadn’t even recognized her from the party the other night.
She smiled slowly. What better way to get back at Philip than to break in through the very door he’d revealed to her? “Then one of us will just have to sit out here for a few hours,” she whispered, still staring at the door. “With the landing outside the door, the servants need to take a few steps to reach the water.” Celaena’s smile grew. “And I’m sure that if they’re lugging a bunch of trash, they probably won’t think to look behind them.”
