The Assassin's Blade
Page 19

Yrene chewed on her lip as she poured a round of ales for the table of four mercenaries playing Kings. She should warn the girl—tell her that she might be better off sneaking to her ship right now, before she wound up with a slit throat.
But Nolan would throw Yrene out into the streets if he knew she had warned her. Especially when many of the cutthroats were beloved patrons who often shared their ill-gained profits with him. And she had no doubt that he’d send those very men after her if she betrayed him. How had she become so adjusted to these people? When had Nolan and the White Pig become a place and position she wanted so desperately to keep?
Yrene swallowed hard, pouring another mug of ale. Her mother wouldn’t have hesitated to warn the girl.
But her mother had been a good woman—a woman who never wavered, who never turned away a sick or wounded person, no matter how poor, from the door of their cottage in southern Fenharrow. Never.
As a prodigiously gifted healer blessed with no small amount of magic, her mother had always said it wasn’t right to charge people for what she’d been given for free by Silba, the Goddess of Healing. And the only time she’d seen her mother falter was the day the soldiers from Adarlan surrounded their house, armed to the teeth and bearing torches and wood.
They hadn’t bothered to listen when her mother explained that her power, like Yrene’s, had already disappeared months before, along with the rest of the magic in the land—abandoned by the gods, her mother had claimed.
No, the soldiers hadn’t listened at all. And neither had any of those vanished gods to whom her mother and Yrene had pleaded for salvation.
It was the first—and only—time her mother took a life.
Yrene could still see the glint of the hidden dagger in her mother’s hand, still feel the blood of that soldier on her bare feet, hear her mother scream at her to run, smell the smoke of the bonfire as they burned her gifted mother alive while Yrene wept from the nearby safety of Oakwald Forest.
It was from her mother that Yrene had inherited her iron stomach—but she’d never thought those solid nerves would wind up keeping her here, claiming this hovel as her home.
Yrene was so lost in thought and memory that she didn’t notice the man until a broad hand was wrapped around her waist.
“We could use a pretty face at this table,” he said, grinning up at her with a wolf’s smile. Yrene stepped back, but he held firm, trying to yank her into his lap.
“I’ve work to do,” she said as blandly as possible. She’d detangled herself from situations like this before—countless times now. It had stopped scaring her long ago.
“You can go to work on me,” said another of the mercenaries, a tall man with a worn-looking blade strapped to his back. Calmly, she pried the first mercenary’s fingers off her waist.
“Last call is in forty minutes,” she said pleasantly, stepping back—as far as she could without irritating the men grinning at her like wild dogs. “Can I get you anything else?”
“What are you doing after?” said another.
“Going home to my husband,” she lied. But they looked at the ring on her finger—the ring that now passed for a wedding band. It had belonged to her mother, and her mother’s mother, and all the great women before her, all such brilliant healers, all wiped from living memory.
The men scowled, and taking that as a cue to leave, Yrene hurried back to the bar. She didn’t warn the girl—didn’t make the trek across the too-big taproom, with all those men waiting like wolves.
Forty minutes. Just another forty minutes until she could kick them all out.
And then she could clean up and tumble into bed, one more day finished in this living hell that had somehow become her future.
 
Honestly, Celaena was a little insulted when none of the men in the taproom made a grab for her, her money, her ruby brooch, or her weapons as she stalked between the tables. The bell had just finished ringing for last call, and even though she wasn’t tired in the slightest, she’d had enough of waiting for a fight or a conversation or anything to occupy her time.
She supposed she could go back to her room and reread one of the books she’d brought. As she prowled past the bar, flipping a silver coin to the dark-haired serving girl, she debated the merits of instead going out onto the streets and seeing what adventure found her.
Reckless and stupid, Sam would say. But Sam wasn’t here, and she didn’t know if he was dead or alive or beaten senseless by Arobynn. It was a safe bet Sam had been punished for the role he’d played in liberating the slaves in Skull’s Bay.
She didn’t want to think about it. Sam had become her friend, she supposed. She’d never had the luxury of friends, and never particularly wanted any. But Sam had been a good contender, even if he didn’t hesitate to say exactly what he thought about her, or her plans, or her abilities.
What would he think if she just sailed off into the unknown and never went to the Red Desert, or never even returned to Rifthold? He might celebrate—especially if Arobynn appointed him as his heir. Or she could poach him, maybe. He’d suggested that they try to run away when they were in Skull’s Bay, actually. So once she was settled someplace, once she had established a new life as a top assassin in whatever land she made her home, she could ask him to join her. And they’d never put up with beatings and humiliations again. Such an easy, inviting idea—such a temptation.
Celaena trudged up the narrow stairs, listening for any thieves or cutthroats that might be waiting. To her disappointment, the upstairs hall was dark and quiet—and empty.
Sighing, she slipped into her room and bolted the door. After a moment, she shoved the ancient chest of drawers in front of it, too. Not for her own safety. Oh, no. It was for the safety of whatever fool tried to break in—and would then find himself split open from navel to nose just to satisfy a wandering assassin’s boredom.
But after pacing for fifteen minutes, she pushed aside the furniture and left. Looking for a fight. For an adventure. For anything to take her mind off the bruises on her face and the punishment Arobynn had given her and the temptation to shirk her obligations and instead sail to a land far, far away.
 
Yrene lugged the last of the rubbish pails into the misty alley behind the White Pig, her back and arms aching. Today had been longer than most.
There hadn’t been a fight, thank the gods, but Yrene still couldn’t shake her nerves and that sense of something being off. But she was glad—so, so glad—there hadn’t been a brawl at the Pig. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of the night mopping blood and vomit off the floor and hauling broken furniture into the alley. After she’d rung the last-call bell, the men had finished their drinks, grumbling and laughing, and dispersed with little to no harassment.
Unsurprisingly, Jessa had vanished with her sailor, and given that the alley was empty, Yrene could only assume the young woman had gone elsewhere with him. Leaving her, yet again, to clean up.
Yrene paused as she dumped the less-disgusting rubbish into a neat pile along the far wall. It wasn’t much: stale bread and stew that would be gone by morning, snatched up by the half-feral urchins roaming the streets.
What would her mother say if she knew what had become of her daughter?
Yrene had been only eleven when those soldiers burned her mother for her magic. For the first six and a half years after the horrors of that day, she’d lived with her mother’s cousin in another village in Fenharrow, pretending to be an absolutely ungifted distant relative. It wasn’t a hard disguise to maintain: her powers truly had vanished. But in those days fear had run rampant, and neighbor had turned on neighbor, often selling out anyone formerly blessed with the gods’ powers to whatever army legion was closest. Thankfully, no one had questioned Yrene’s small presence; and in those long years, no one looked her way as she helped the family farm struggle to return to normal in the wake of Adarlan’s forces.