The Assassin and the Desert (3 page)

There were two narrow beds, and it took her a moment to figure out which was Ansel's. The red stone wall behind it was bare. Aside from the small iron wolf figurine on the bedside table, and a human-sized dummy that must be used to store Ansel's extraordinary armor, Celaena would have had no idea that she was sharing a room with anyone.

Peeking through Ansel's chest of drawers was equally futile. Burgundy tunics and black pants, all neatly folded. The only things that offset the monotony were several white tunics—garb that many of the men and women had been wearing. Even the undergarments were plain—and folded. Who folded their undergarments? Celaena thought of her enormous closet back home, exploding with color and different fabrics and patterns, all tossed together. Her undergarments, while expensive, usually wound up in a heap in their drawer.

Sam, probably, folded his undergarments. Though, depending on how much of him Arobynn had left intact, he might not even be able to now. Arobynn would never permanently maim
her
, but Sam might have fared worse. Sam had always been the expendable one.

She shoved the thought away and nestled farther into the bed. Through the small window, the silence of the fortress lulled her to sleep.

She'd never seen Arobynn so angry, and it was scaring the hell out of her. He didn't yell, and he didn't curse—he just went very still and very quiet. The only signs of his rage were his silver eyes, glittering with a deadly calm.

She tried not to flinch in her chair as he stood from his giant wooden desk. Sam, seated beside her, sucked in a breath. She couldn't speak; if she started talking, her trembling voice would betray her. She couldn't endure that kind of humiliation.

“Do you know how much money you've cost me?” Arobynn asked her softly.

Celaena's palms began sweating.
It was worth it,
she told herself. Freeing those two hundred slaves was worth it. No matter what was about to happen, she'd never regret doing it.

“It's not her fault,” Sam cut in, and she flashed him a warning glare. “We both thought it was—”

“Don't lie to me, Sam Cortland,” Arobynn growled. “The only way
you
became involved in this was because she decided to do it—and it was either let her die trying, or help her.”

Sam opened his mouth to object, but Arobynn silenced him with a sharp whistle through his teeth. His office doors opened. Wesley, Arobynn's manservant, peered in. Arobynn kept his eyes on Celaena as he said, “Get Tern, Mullin, and Harding.”

This wasn't a good sign. She kept her face neutral, though, as Arobynn continued watching her. Neither she nor Sam dared speak in the long minutes that passed. She tried not to shake.

At last, the three assassins—all men, all cut from muscle and armed to the teeth, filed in. “Shut the door,” Arobynn said to Harding, the last one to enter. Then he told the others, “Hold him.”

Instantly, Sam was dragged out of his chair, his arms pinned back by Tern and Mullin. Harding took a step in front of them, his fist flexing.

“No,” Celaena breathed as she met Sam's wide-eyed stare. Arobynn wouldn't be that cruel—he wouldn't make her watch as he hurt Sam. Something tight and aching built in her throat.

But Celaena kept her head high, even as Arobynn said quietly to her, “You are not going to enjoy this. You will not forget this. And I don't want you to.”

She whipped her head back to Sam, a plea for Harding not to hurt him on her lips.

She sensed the blow only a heartbeat before Arobynn struck her.

She toppled out of her chair and didn't have time to raise herself properly before Arobynn grabbed her by the collar and swung again, his first connecting with her cheek. Light and darkness reeled. Another blow, hard enough that she felt the warmth of her blood on her face before she felt the pain.

Sam began screaming something. But Arobynn hit her again. She tasted blood, yet she didn't fight back, didn't dare to. Sam struggled against Tern and Mullin. They held him firm, Harding putting a warning arm in front of Sam to block his path.

Arobynn hit her—her ribs, her jaw, her gut. And her face. Again and again and again. Careful blows—blows meant to inflict as much pain as possible without doing permanent damage. And Sam kept roaring, shouting words she couldn't quite hear over the agony.

The last thing she remembered was a pang of guilt at the sight of her blood staining Arobynn's exquisite red carpet. And then darkness, blissful darkness, full of relief that she hadn't seen him hurt Sam.

Celaena dressed in the nicest tunic she'd brought—which wasn't really anything to admire, but the midnight blue and gold
did
bring out the turquoise hues in her eyes. She went so far as to apply some cosmetics to her eyes, but opted to avoid putting anything on the rest of her face. Even though the sun had set, the heat remained. Anything she put on her skin would likely slide right off.

Ansel made good on her promise to retrieve her before dinner and pestered Celaena with questions about her journey during the walk to the dining hall. As they walked, there were some areas where Ansel talked normally, others where she kept her voice at a whisper, and others where she signaled not to speak at all. Celaena couldn't tell why certain rooms demanded utter silence and others did not—they all seemed the same to her. Still exhausted despite her nap, and unsure when she could speak, Celaena kept her answers brief. She wouldn't have minded missing dinner and just sleeping all night.

Staying alert as they entered the hall was an effort of will. Yet even with her exhaustion, she instinctively scanned the room. There were three exits—the giant doors through which they entered, and two servants' doors on either end. The hall was packed wall-to-wall with long wooden tables and benches, full of people of all ages, all nationalities. At least seventy of them in total. None of them looked at Celaena as Ansel ambled toward a table near the front of the room. If they knew who she was, they certainly didn't care. She tried not to scowl.

Ansel slid into place at a table and patted the empty spot on the bench beside her. The nearest assassins looked up from their meal—some had been talking quietly and others were silent—as Celaena stood before them.

Ansel waved a hand in Celaena's direction. “Celaena, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Celaena. Though I'm sure you gossips know everything about her already.” She spoke softly, and even though some assassins in the hall were talking, everyone around them seemed to hear her just fine. Even the clank of their utensils seemed hushed.

Celaena scanned the faces of those around her; they all seemed to be watching her with benign, if not amused, curiosity. Carefully, all too aware of each of her movements, Celaena sat on the bench and surveyed the table. Platters of grilled, fragrant meats; bowls full of spherical, spiced grains; fruits and dates; and pitcher after pitcher of water.

Ansel helped herself, her armor glinting in the light of the ornate glass lanterns dangling from the ceiling, and then piled the same food on Celaena's plate. “Just start eating,” she whispered. “It all tastes good, and none of it is poisoned.” To emphasize her point, Ansel popped a cube of charred lamb into her mouth and chewed. “See?” she said between bites. “Lord Berick might want to kill us, but he knows better than to try to get rid of us through poisons. We're far too skilled to fall for that sort of thing. Aren't we?” The assassins around her grinned.

“Lord Berick?” Celaena asked, now staring at her plate and all the food on it.

Ansel made a face, gobbling down some saffron-colored grains. “Our local villain. Or I suppose we're
his
local villains, depending on who is telling the story.”

“He's the villain,” said a curly-haired, dark-eyed man across from Ansel. He was handsome in a way, but had a smile far too much like Captain Rolfe's for Celaena's liking. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five. “No matter
who
is telling the story.”

“Well,
you
are ruining
my
story, Mikhail,” Ansel said, but grinned at him. He tossed a grape at Ansel, and she caught it in her mouth with ease. Celaena still didn't touch her food. “Anyway,” Ansel said, dumping more food onto Celaena's plate, “Lord Berick rules over the city of Xandria, and
claims
that he rules this part of the desert, too. Of course, we don't quite agree with that, but . . . To shorten a long and frightfully dull story, Lord Berick has wanted us all dead for years and years. The King of Adarlan set an embargo on the Red Desert after Lord Berick failed to send troops into Eyllwe to crush some rebellion, and Berick has been dying to get back in the king's good graces ever since. He somehow got it into his thick skull that killing all of us—and sending the head of the Mute Master to Adarlan on a silver platter—would do the trick.”

Ansel took another bite of meat and went on. “So, every now and then, he tries some tactic or other: sending asps in baskets, sending soldiers posing as our beloved foreign dignitaries”—she pointed to a table at the end of the hall, where the people were dressed in exotic clothing—“sending troops in the dead of night to fire flaming arrows at us . . . Why, two days ago, we caught some of his soldiers trying to dig a tunnel beneath our walls. Ill-conceived plan from the start.”

Across the table, Mikhail chuckled. “Nothing's worked yet,” he said. Hearing the noise of their conversation, an assassin at a nearby table pivoted to raise a finger to her lips, shushing them. Mikhail gave them an apologetic shrug. The dining hall, Celaena gleaned, must be a silence-is-requested-but-not-required sort of place.

Ansel poured a glass of water for Celaena, then one for herself, and spoke more quietly. “I suppose that's the problem with attacking an impenetrable fortress full of skilled warriors: you have to be smarter than us. Though . . . Berick is almost brutal enough to make up for it. The assassins that have fallen into his hands came back in pieces.” She shook her head. “He enjoys being cruel.”

“And Ansel knows that firsthand,” Mikhail chimed in, though his voice was little more than a murmur. “She's had the pleasure of meeting him.”

Celaena raised a brow, and Ansel made a face. “Only because I'm the most charming of you lot. The Master sometimes sends me to Xandria to meet with Berick—to try to negotiate some sort of accord between us. Thankfully, he still won't dare violate the terms of parlay, but . . . one of these days, I'll pay for my courier duties with my hide.”

Mikhail rolled his eyes at Celaena. “She likes to be dramatic.”

“That I do.”

Celaena gave them both a weak smile. It had been a few minutes, and Ansel certainly wasn't dead. She bit into a piece of meat, nearly moaned at the array of tangy-smoky spices, and set about eating. Ansel and Mikhail began chattering to each other, and Celaena took the opportunity to glance down the table.

Outside of the markets in Rifthold and the slave ships at Skull's Bay, she'd never seen such a mix of different kingdoms and continents. And though most of the people here were trained killers, there was an air of peace and contentment—of joy, even. She flicked her eyes to the table of foreign dignitaries that Ansel had pointed out. Men and women, hunched over their food, whispered with each other and occasionally watched the assassins in the room.

“Ah,” Ansel said quietly. “They're just squabbling over which of us they want to make a bid for.”

“Bid?”

Mikhail leaned forward to see the ambassadors through the crowd. “They come here from foreign courts to offer us positions. They make offers for the assassins that most impress them—sometimes just for one mission, other times for a lifelong contract. Any of us are free to go, if we wish. But not all of us want to leave.”

“And you two . . . ?”

“Ach, no,” Ansel said. “My father would wallop me from here to the ends of the earth if I bound myself to a foreign court. He'd say it's a form of prostitution.”

Mikhail laughed under his breath. “Personally, I like it here. When I want to leave, I'll let the Master know I'm available. But until then . . .” He glanced at Ansel, and Celaena could have sworn she saw the girl's face flush slightly. “Until then, I've got my reasons to stay.”

Celaena asked, “What courts do the dignitaries hail from?”

“None in Adarlan's grip, if that's what you're asking.” Mikhail scratched the day's worth of stubble on his face. “Our Master knows well enough that everything from Eyllwe to Terrasen is
your
Master's territory.”

“It certainly is.” She didn't know why she said it. Given what Arobynn had done to her, she hardly felt defensive of the assassins in Adarlan's empire. But . . . but to see all these assassins gathered here, so much collective power and knowledge, and to know that they wouldn't dare intrude on Arobynn's—on
her
—territory . . .

Celaena went on eating in silence as Ansel and Mikhail and a few others around them talked quietly. Vows of silence, Ansel had explained earlier, were taken for as long as each person saw fit. Some spent weeks in silence; others, years. Ansel claimed she'd once sworn to be silent for a month, and had only lasted two days before she gave up. She liked talking too much. Celaena didn't have any trouble believing that.

A few of the people around them were pantomiming. Though it often took them a few tries to discern the vague gestures, it seemed like Ansel and Mikhail could interpret the movements of their hands.

Celaena felt someone's attention on her, and tried not to blink when she noticed a dark-haired, handsome young man watching her from a few seats down. Stealing glances at her was more like it, since his sea-green eyes kept darting to her face, then back to his companions. He didn't open his mouth once, but pantomimed to his friends. Another silent one.