The Assassin and the Pirate Lord (Throne of Glass 0.1)(6)

When she was certain that no one could either hear or see her, Celaena ripped off her hood, untied the mask from her face, and whirled to face him.

Sam, seated on his small bed—which seemed more like a cot—raised his palms to her. “Before you bite my head off,” he said, keeping his voice quiet just in case, “let me say that I went into that meeting knowing as little as you.”

She glared at him, savoring the fresh air on her sticky, sweaty face. “Oh, really?”

“You’re not the only one who can improvise.” Sam kicked off his boots and hoisted himself farther onto the bed. “That man’s as much in love with himself as you are; the last thing we need is for him to know that he had the upper hand in there.”

Celaena dug her nails into her palms. “Why would Arobynn send us here without telling us the true reason? Reprimand Rolfe … for a crime that had nothing to do with him! Maybe Rolfe was lying about the content of the letter.” She straightened. “That might very well be—”

“He was not lying about the content of the letter, Celaena,” Sam said. “Why would he bother? He has more important things to do.”

She grumbled a slew of nasty words and paced, her black boots clunking against the uneven floorboards. Pirate Lord indeed. This was the best room he could offer them? She was Adarlan’s Assassin, the right arm of Arobynn Hamel—not some backstreet harlot!

“Regardless, Arobynn has his reasons.” Sam stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes.

“Slaves,” she spat, dragging a hand through her braided hair. Her fingers caught in the plait. “What business does Arobynn have getting involved in the slave trade? We’re better than that—we don’t need that money!”

Unless Arobynn was lying; unless all of his extravagant spending was done with nonexistent funds. She’d always assumed that his wealth was bottomless. He’d spent a king’s fortune on her upbringing—on her wardrobe alone. Fur, silk, jewels, the weekly cost of just keeping herself looking beautiful … Of course, he’d always made it clear that she was to pay him back, and she’d been giving him a cut of her wages to do so, but …

Maybe Arobynn just wanted to increase what wealth he already had. If Ben were alive, he wouldn’t have stood for it. Ben would have been just as disgusted as she was. Being hired to kill corrupt government officials was one thing, but taking prisoners of war, brutalizing them until they stopped fighting back, and sentencing them to a lifetime of slavery …

Sam opened an eye. “Are you going to take a bath, or can I go first?”

She hurled her cloak at him. He caught it with a single hand and tossed it to the ground. She said, “I’m going first.”

“Of course you are.”

She shot him a dirty look and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Of all the dinners she’d ever attended, this was by far the worst. Not because of the company—which was, she grudgingly admitted, somewhat interesting—and not because of the food, which looked and smelled wonderful, but simply because she couldn’t eat anything, thanks to that confounded mask.

Sam, of course, seemed to take second helpings of everything solely to mock her. Celaena, seated at Rolfe’s left, half hoped the food was poisoned. Sam had only served himself from the array of meats and stews after watching Rolfe eat some himself, so the likelihood of that wish coming true was rather low.

“Mistress Sardothien,” Rolfe said, his dark brows rising high on his forehead. “You must be famished. Or is my food not pleasing enough for your refined palate?”

Beneath the cape and the cloak and the dark tunic, Celaena was not just famished, but also hot and tired. And thirsty. Which, combined with her temper, usually turned out to be a lethal combination. Of course, they couldn’t see any of that.

“I’m quite fine,” she lied, swirling the water in her goblet. It lapped against the sides, taunting her with each rotation. Celaena stopped.

“Maybe if you took off your mask, you might have an easier time eating,” Rolfe said, taking a bite of roast boar. “Unless what lies beneath it will make us lose our appetites.”

The five other pirates—all captains in Rolfe’s fleet—sniggered, and she straightened.

“Keep talking like that”—Celaena gripped the stem of her goblet—“and I might give you a reason to wear a mask.” Sam kicked her under the table, and she kicked him back, a deft blow to his shins—hard enough that he choked on his water.

Some of the assembled captains stopped laughing, but Rolfe chuckled. She rested her gloved hand atop the stained dining table. The table was freckled with burns and deep gouges; it had clearly seen its fair share of brawls. Didn’t Rolfe have any taste for luxury? Perhaps he wasn’t so well off, if he was resorting to the slave trade. But Arobynn … Arobynn was as rich as the King of Adarlan himself. Why did he need to stoop so low?

Rolfe flicked his sea-green eyes to Sam, who was frowning yet again. “Have you seen her without the mask?”

Sam, to her surprise, grimaced. “Once.” He gave her an all too believably wary look. “And that was enough.”

Rolfe studied Sam for a heartbeat, then took another bite of his meat. “Well, if you won’t show me your face, then perhaps you’ll indulge us with the tale of how, exactly, you became protégée to Arobynn Hamel?”