The Assassin and the Pirate Lord (Throne of Glass 0.1)(9)

“Just answer the question.” Thunder rumbled in the distance.

They reached the docks, which were by far the most impressive thing about the town. Ships of all shapes and sizes rocked against the wooden piers, and pirates scurried along the decks, tying down various things before the storm hit. On the horizon, lightning flashed just above the lone watchtower perched along the northern entrance to the bay—the watchtower from which Ship-Breaker was raised and lowered. In the flash, she’d also seen the two catapults atop one of the tower landings. If Ship-Breaker didn’t destroy a boat, then those catapults finished the job.

“Don’t worry, Mistress Sardothien,” Rolfe said, striding past the various taverns and inns that lined the docks. They had two blocks left. “Your time won’t be wasted. Though getting through a hundred slaves will take a while.”

A hundred slaves on one ship! Where did they all fit?

“As long as you don’t try to fool me,” she snapped, “I’ll consider it time well spent.”

“Just so you don’t find reasons to complain—and I’m sure you’ll try your best to do just that—I have another shipment of slaves being inspected at the holding facility tonight. Why don’t you join me? That way, you can have something to compare them to tomorrow.”

That would be perfect, actually. Perhaps she could just claim the slaves weren’t up to par and refuse to do business with him because of it. And then leave, no harm done to either of them. She’d still have to face Sam—and then Arobynn—but … she’d figure them out later.

She shrugged, waving a hand. “Fine, fine. Just send someone for me when it’s time.” The humidity was so thick she felt as if she were swimming through it. “And after Arobynn’s slaves are inspected?” Any bit of information could later be used as a weapon against him. “Are they mine to look after on the ship, or will your men be watching them for me? Your pirates might very well think they’re free to take whatever slaves they wish.”

Rolfe clenched the hilt of his sword. It glinted in the muted light, and she admired the intricate pommel, shaped like a sea dragon’s head. “If I give the order that no one is to touch your slaves, then no one will touch them,” Rolfe said through his teeth. His annoyance was an unexpected delight. “However, I’ll arrange to have a few guards on the ship, if that will make you sleep easier. I wouldn’t want Arobynn to think I don’t take his investment seriously.”

They approached a blue-painted tavern, where several men in dark tunics lounged out front. At the sight of Rolfe, they straightened, saluting him. His guards? Why hadn’t anyone escorted him through the streets?

“That will be fine,” she said crisply. “I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”

“I’m sure you’re eager to return to your clients in Rifthold.” Rolfe stopped in front of the faded door. The sign above it, swinging in the growing storm winds, said THE SEA DRAGON. It was also the name of his famed ship, which was docked just behind them, and really didn’t look all that spectacular, anyway. Perhaps this was the Pirate Lord’s headquarters. And if he was making her and Sam stay at that tavern a few blocks away, then perhaps he trusted them as little as they trusted him.

“I think I’m more eager just to return to civilized society,” she said sweetly.

Rolfe let out a low growl, and stepped onto the threshold of the tavern. Inside, it was all shadows and murmuring voices—and reeked of stale ale. Other than that, she could see nothing.

“One day,” Rolfe said, too quietly, “someone’s really going make you pay for that arrogance.” Lightning made his green eyes flicker. “I just hope I’m there to see it.”

He shut the tavern door in her face.

Celaena smiled, and her smile grew wider as fat drops of rain splattered on the rust-colored earth, instantly cooling the muggy air.

That had gone surprisingly well.

“Is it poisoned?” she asked Sam, plopping down on her bed just as a clap of thunder shook the tavern to its foundations. The teacup rattled in its saucer, and she breathed in the smell of fresh-baked bread, sausage, and porridge as she threw back her hood and removed her mask.

“By them, or by me?” Sam was sitting on the floor, his back against the bed.

Just to needle him, Celaena sniffed all of her food. “Do I detect … belladonna?”

Sam gave her a flat stare, and Celaena smirked as she tore a bite from the bread. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of her utensils against the chipped plates, the drumming of the rain on the roof, and the occasional groan of a thunderhead breaking.

“So,” Sam said as she drank her tea. “Are you going to tell me what you’re planning, or should I warn Rolfe to expect the worst?”

She sipped daintily at her tea. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Sam Cortland.”

“What sort of ‘questions’ did you ask him?”

She set down her teacup. Rain lashed the shutters, muffling the clink of her cup against the saucer. “Polite ones.”

“Oh? I didn’t think you knew what polite meant.”

“I can be polite when it pleases me.”

“When it gets you what you want, you mean. So what is it you want from Rolfe?”