The Assassin's Blade
Page 29
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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. 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. 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, they 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, 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 one another 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 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.”
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. 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. 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, they 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, 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 one another 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 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.”
