Empire of Storms
Page 53

So Dorian and Rowan collected kernels of information and would return to the inn each night to analyze them over spiced prawns from the warm waters of the archipelago and steaming rice from traders in the southern continent, their glasses of orange-infused water resting atop the maps and charts they’d purchased in town. Information was mostly second- or third-hand—and a common whore patrolling the streets seemed to know as much as the sailors laboring at the docks.
But none of the whores or the sailors or the traders had news of Prince Hollin’s or Queen Georgina’s fates. War was coming—and the fate of a child and a flippant queen who had never bothered to take power for herself was of little concern to anyone but Dorian, it seemed.
On a particularly steamy afternoon, cooling off now thanks to a dazzling thunderstorm, Dorian set down his fork beside his plate of steamed reef fish and said to Rowan, “I find I’m tired of waiting for Rolfe to meet with us.”
Rowan’s fork clinked against his plate as he lowered it—and waited with preternatural stillness. Where Gavriel and Fenrys were for the afternoon, he didn’t care. Dorian was actually grateful for their absence as he said, “I need some paper—and a messenger.”
 
 
Rolfe summoned them and the cadre to the Sea Dragon tavern three hours later.
Rowan had been teaching him about shielding these past few days—and Dorian erected one around himself as Rolfe led the four of them along the upstairs hall of the tavern, heading for his office.
His idea had unfolded smoothly—perfectly.
No one had noticed that the letter Rowan mailed after lunch was the same one that was later delivered to Dorian at the inn.
But Rolfe’s spies noticed the shock that Dorian displayed while reading it—the dismay and fear and rage at whatever news he’d received. Rowan, true to form, had paced and snarled at the news he’d attained. They made sure the servant washing the hallway had overheard their mention of the war-altering information, that Rolfe himself could gain much from it—or lose everything.
And now, striding for the man’s office, Dorian couldn’t tell if it pleased or unnerved him that they were so closely watched that his plan had worked. Gavriel and Fenrys, thankfully, asked no questions.
The Pirate Lord, clad in a faded blue-and-gold jacket, paused before the oak door to his office. His gloves were on, his face a bit haggard. He doubted that expression would improve when Rolfe realized there was no news whatsoever—and he’d have this meeting whether he wanted to or not.
Dorian caught the three Fae males assessing Rolfe’s each breath, his posture, listening to the sounds of the first mate and quartermaster a level below. All three exchanged barely perceptible nods. Allies—at least until Rolfe heard them out.
Rolfe unlocked the door, muttering, “This had better be worth my time,” and stalked into the awaiting dimness beyond. Then stopped dead.
Even in the watery light, Dorian could perfectly see the woman sitting at Rolfe’s desk, her black clothes dirty, weapons gleaming, and her feet propped on the dark wooden surface.
Aelin Galathynius, her hands laced behind her head, grinned at them all and said, “I like this office far better than your other one, Rolfe.”
 
 
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Dorian didn’t dare move as Rolfe let out a snarl. “I have a distinct memory, Celaena Sardothien, of saying that if you set foot in my territory again, your life was forfeit.” “Ah,” Aelin said, lowering her hands but leaving her feet still propped on Rolfe’s desk, “but where would the fun be in that?”
Rowan was still as death beside him. Aelin’s grin became feline as she finally lowered her feet and ran her hands along either side of the desk, assessing the smooth wood as if it was a prize horse. She inclined her head to Dorian. “Hello, Majesty.”
“Hello, Celaena,” he said as calmly as he could, well aware that two Fae males behind him could hear his thundering heart. Rolfe whipped his head toward him.
Because it was Celaena who sat here—for whatever purpose, it was Celaena Sardothien in this room.
She jerked her chin at Rolfe. “You’ve seen better days, but considering half your fleet has abandoned you, I’d say you look decent enough.”
“Get out of my chair,” Rolfe said too quietly.
Aelin did no such thing. She just gave Rowan a sultry sweep from foot to face. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable, eyes intent—near-glowing. And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.”
Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.”
“Pity,” Aelin said, cocking her head as she noticed a bowl of small emeralds on Rolfe’s desk. Don’t do it, don’t—
Aelin swiped up the emeralds in a hand, picking them over as she glanced at Rowan beneath her lashes. “She must be a rare, staggering beauty to make you so faithful.”
Gods save them all. He could have sworn Fenrys coughed behind him.
Aelin chucked the emeralds into the metal dish as if they were bits of copper, their plunking the only sound. “She must be clever”—plunk—“and fascinating”—plunk—“and very, very talented.” Plunk, plunk, plunk went the emeralds. She examined the four gems remaining in her hand. “She must be the most wonderful person who ever existed.”
Another cough from behind him—from Gavriel this time. But Aelin only had eyes for Rowan as the warrior said to her, “She is indeed that. And more.”
“Hmmm,” Aelin said, rolling the emeralds in her scarred palm with expert ease.
Rolfe growled, “What. Are. You. Doing. Here.”
Aelin dumped the emeralds into their dish. “Is that any way to speak to an old friend?”
Rolfe stalked toward the desk, and Rowan trembled with restraint as the Pirate Lord braced his hands on the wooden surface. “Last I heard, your master was dead and you sold the Guild to his underlings. You’re a free woman. What are you doing in my city?”
Aelin met his sea-green eyes with an irreverence that Dorian wondered if she had been born with or had honed through skill and blood and adventure. “War is coming, Rolfe. Am I not allowed to weigh my options? I thought to see what you planned to do.”
Rolfe looked over his broad shoulder at Dorian. “Rumor has it she was your Champion this fall. Do you wish to deal with this?”
Dorian said smoothly, “You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
A flash of a grin from Aelin. Rolfe rolled his eyes and said to the assassin-queen, “So, what is the plan, then? You made a bargain to get out of Endovier, became the King’s Champion, and now that he is dead, you wish to see how you might profit?”
Dorian tried not to flinch. Dead—his father was dead, at his own hands.
“You know how my tastes run,” Aelin said. “Even with Arobynn’s fortune and the sale of the Guild … War can be a profitable time for people who are smart with their business.”
“And where is the sixteen-year-old self-righteous brat who wrecked six of my ships, stole two of them, and destroyed my town, all for the sake of two hundred slaves?”
A shadow flickered in Aelin’s eyes that sent a chill down Dorian’s spine. “Spend a year in Endovier, Rolfe, and you quickly learn how to play a different sort of game.”