The Assassin and the Empire
Page 2

And then the real fight would begin.
“Should I be relieved or worried that you haven’t said anything?” Sam asked her as they strode through the backstreets of the capital, weaving their way home.
Celaena dodged a puddle that could have been either rainwater or urine. “I’ve been thinking of ways to begin that don’t involve screaming.”
Sam snorted, and she ground her teeth. A bag of coins jangled at his waist. Although the hood of his cloak was pulled up over his head, she could still clearly see his split lip.
She fisted her hands. “You promised you wouldn’t go back there.”
Sam kept his eyes on the narrow alley ahead of them, always alert, always watching for any source of danger. “I didn’t promise. I said I’d think about it.”
“People die in the Vaults!” She said it louder than she meant to, her words echoing off the alley walls.
“People die because they’re fools in search of glory. They’re not trained assassins.”
“Accidents still happen. Any of those men could have snuck in a blade.”
He let out a quick, harsh laugh, full of pure male arrogance. “You really think so little of my abilities?”
They turned down another street, where a group of people were smoking pipes outside a dimly lit tavern. Celaena waited until they were past them before speaking. “Risking yourself for a few coins is absurd.”
“We need whatever money we can get,” Sam said quietly.
She tensed. “We have money.” Some money, less and less each day.
“It won’t last forever. Not when we haven’t been able to get any other contracts. And especially not with your lifestyle.”
“My lifestyle!” she hissed. But it was true. She could rough it, but her heart lay in luxury—in fine clothes and delicious food and exquisite furnishings. She’d taken for granted how much of that had been provided for her at the Assassin’s Keep. Arobynn might have kept a detailed list of the expenses she owed him, but he’d never charged them for their food, or their servants, or their carriages. And now that she was on her own …
“The Vaults are easy fights,” Sam said. “Two hours there, and I can make decent money.”
“The Vaults are a festering pile of shit,” she snapped. “We’re better than that. We can make our money elsewhere.” She didn’t know where, or how, exactly, but she could find something better than fighting in the Vaults.
Sam paused, grabbing her arm, making her stop to face him. “Then what if we left Rifthold?” Though her own hood covered most of her features, she raised her brows at him. “What’s keeping us here?”
Nothing. Everything.
Unable to answer him, Celaena shook off his grasp and continued walking.
It was an absurd idea, really. Leaving Rifthold. Where would they even go? It was nonsense.
They reached the warehouse and were quickly up the rickety wooden stairs at the back and inside the apartment on the second floor.
She didn’t say anything to him as she tossed off her cloak and boots, lit some candles, and went into the kitchen to down a piece of bread slathered in butter. And he didn’t say anything as he strode into the bathing room and washed himself. The running water was a luxury the previous owner had spent a fortune on—and had been the biggest priority for Celaena when she was looking for places to live.
Benefits like running water were plentiful in the capital, but not widespread elsewhere. If they left Rifthold, what sorts of things would she have to go without?
She was still contemplating that when Sam padded into the kitchen, all traces of blood and sand washed away. His bottom lip was still swollen, and he had a bruise on his cheek, not to mention his raw knuckles, but he looked to be in one piece.
Sam slid into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table and cut himself a piece of bread. Buying food for the house took up more time than she’d realized it would, and she’d been debating hiring a housekeeper, but … that’d cost money. Everything cost money.
Sam took a bite, poured a glass of water from the ewer she’d left sitting on the oak table, and leaned back in his chair. Behind him, the window above the sink revealed the glittering sprawl of the capital and the illuminated glass castle towering over them all.
“Are you just not going to speak to me ever again?”
She shot him a glare. “Moving is expensive. If we were to leave Rifthold, then we’d need a little more money just so we could have something to fall back on if we can’t get work right away.” Celaena thought about it. “One more contract each,” she said. “I might not be Arobynn’s protégée anymore, but I’m still Adarlan’s Assassin, and you’re … well, you’re you.” He gave her a dark look, and, despite herself, Celaena grinned. “One more contract,” she repeated, “and we could move. It’d help with the expenses—give us enough of a cushion.”
“Or we could just say to hell with it and go.”
“I’m not giving up everything just to slum it somewhere. If we leave, we’ll do it my way.”
Sam crossed his arms. “You keep saying if—but what else is there to decide?”
Again: nothing. Everything.
She took a long breath. “How will we establish ourselves in a new city without Arobynn’s support?”
Triumph flashed in Sam’s eyes. She leashed her irritation. She hadn’t said outright that she was agreeing to move, but her question was confirmation enough for both of them.
Before he could answer, she went on: “We’ve grown up here, and yet in the past month, we haven’t been able to get any hires. Arobynn always handled those things.”
“Intentionally,” Sam growled. “And we’d do just fine, I think. We’re not going to need his support. When we move, we’re leaving the Guild, too. I don’t want to be paying dues to them for the rest of my life, and I don’t want anything to do with that conniving bastard ever again.”
“Yes, but you know that we need his blessing. We need to make … amends. And need him to agree to let us leave the Guild peacefully.” She almost choked on it, but managed to get the words out.
Sam shot out of his seat. “Do I need to remind you what he did to us? What he’s done to you? You know that the reason we can’t find any hires is because Arobynn made sure word got out that we weren’t to be approached.”
“Exactly. And it will only get worse. The Assassin’s Guild would punish us for leaving the Guild and beginning our own establishment elsewhere without Arobynn’s approval.”
Which was true. While they’d paid their debts to Arobynn, they were still members of the Guild, and still obligated to pay them dues every year. Every assassin in the Guild answered to Arobynn. Obeyed him. Celaena and Sam had both been dispatched more than once to hunt down Guild members who had gone rogue, refused to pay their dues, or broken some sacred Guild rule. Those assassins had tried to hide, but it had only been a matter of time before they’d been found. And the consequences hadn’t been pleasant.
Celaena and Sam had brought Arobynn and the Guild a lot of money and earned them a fair amount of notoriety, so their decisions and careers had been closely monitored. They were important to the Guild. Even with their debts paid, they’d still need permission to be allowed to leave. They’d be asked to pay a parting fee, if they were lucky. If not … well, it’d be a very dangerous request to make.
“So,” she went on, “unless you want to wind up with your throat cut, we need to get Arobynn’s approval to break from the Guild before we leave. And since you seem in such a hurry to get out of the capital, we’ll go see him tomorrow.”
Sam pursed his lips. “I’m not going to grovel. Not to him.”
“Neither am I.” She stalked to the kitchen sink, bracing her hands on either side of it as she looked out the window. Rifthold. Could she truly leave it behind? She might hate it at times, but … this was her city. Leaving that, starting over in a new city somewhere on the continent … Could she do it?
Footsteps thudded on the wooden floor, a warm breath caressed her neck, and then Sam’s arms slipped around her waist from behind. He rested his chin on the crook between her shoulder and neck, and they stared at the city.
“I just want to be with you,” he murmured. “I don’t care where we go. That’s all I want.”
She closed her eyes, and leaned her head against his. He smelled of her lavender soap—her expensive lavender soap that she’d once warned him to never use again. He probably had no idea what soap she’d even been scolding him about. She’d have to start hiding her beloved toiletries and leave out something inexpensive for him. Sam wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, anyway.
“I’m sorry I went to the Vaults,” he said onto her skin, planting a kiss beneath her ear.
A shiver went down her spine. Though they’d been sharing the bedroom for the past month, they hadn’t yet crossed that final threshold of intimacy. She wanted to—and he certainly wanted to— but so much had changed so quickly. Something that monumental could wait a while longer. It didn’t stop them from enjoying each other, though.
Sam kissed her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, and her heart stumbled a beat.
“Don’t use kissing to swindle me into accepting your apology,” she got out, even as she tilted her head to the side to allow him better access.
He chuckled, his breath caressing her neck. “It was worth a shot.”
“If you go to the Vaults again,” she said as he nibbled on her ear, “I’ll hop in and beat you unconscious myself.”
She felt him smile against her skin. “You could try.” He bit her ear—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to tell her that he’d now stopped listening.
She whirled in his arms, glaring up at him, at his beautiful face illuminated by the glow of the city, at his eyes, so dark and rich. “And you used my lavender soap. Don’t ever do that—”
But then Sam’s lips found hers, and Celaena stopped talking for a good while after that.
Yet as they stood there, their bodies twining around each other, there was still one question that remained unasked—one question neither of them dared voice.
Would Arobynn Hamel let them leave?
Chapter Two
When Celaena and Sam entered the Assassin’s Keep the next day, it was as if nothing had changed. The same trembling housekeeper greeted them at the door before scuttling away, and Wesley, Arobynn’s manservant, was standing in his familiar position outside the King of the Assassins’ study.
They strode right up to the door, Celaena using every step, every breath, to take in details. Two blades strapped to Wesley’s back, one at his side, two daggers sheathed at his waist, the glint of one shining in his boot—probably one more hidden in the other boot, too. Wesley’s eyes were alert, keen—not a sign of exhaustion or sickness or anything that she could use to her advantage if it came to a fight.
But Sam just strolled right up to Wesley, and despite how quiet he’d been on their long walk over here, he held out a hand and said, “Good to see you, Wesley.”
Wesley shook Sam’s hand and gave a half smile. “I’d say you look good, boyo, but that bruise says otherwise.” Wesley looked at Celaena, who lifted her chin and huffed. “You look more or less the same,” he said, a challenging gleam in his eyes. He’d never liked her—never bothered to be nice. As if he’d always known that she and Arobynn would wind up on opposite sides, and that he’d be the first line of defense.
She strode right past him. “And you still look like a jackass,” she said sweetly, and opened the doors to the study. Sam muttered an apology as Celaena entered the room and found Arobynn waiting for them.