Celaena swallowed hard. Was this a peace offering, then? Some indication that Arobynn actually had changed his mind about the slave trade and forgiven her for Skull’s Bay?

But to get tangled up in this sort of thing again … “What’s Bardingale’s stake in this?” she asked carefully. “Why hire us to kill him?”

“Because Leighfer doesn’t believe in slavery, and she wants to protect the people on that list—people who are preparing to take the necessary steps to soften the blow of slavery in Melisande. And possibly even smuggle captured slaves to safety.” Arobynn spoke like he knew Bardingale personally—like they were more than business partners.

“And Doneval’s partner in Rifthold? Who is it?” She had to consider all the angles before she accepted, had to think it through.

“Leighfer doesn’t know; her sources haven’t been able to find a name in Doneval’s coded correspondences with his partner. All she’s gleaned is that Doneval will exchange the documents with his new business partner six days from now at his rented house, at some point in the day. She’s uncertain what documents his partner is bringing to the table, but she’s betting that it’s a list of important people opposed to slavery in Adarlan. Leighfer says Doneval will probably have a private room in his house to do the swap—perhaps an upstairs study or something of the sort. She knows him well enough to guarantee that.”

She was beginning to see where this was going. Doneval was practically wrapped in a ribbon for her. All she had to do was find out what time the meeting would take place, learn his defenses, and figure out a way around them. “So I’m not only to take out Doneval, but also to wait until he’s done the exchange so I can get his documents and whatever documents his partner brings to the table?” Arobynn smiled slightly. “What about his partner? Am I to dispatch this person as well?”

Arobynn’s smile became a thin line. “Since we don’t know who he’ll be dealing with, you haven’t been contracted to eliminate them. But, it’s been strongly hinted that Leighfer and her allies want the contact dead as well. They might give you a bonus for it.”

She studied the emerald brooch in her lap. “And how well will this pay?”

“Extraordinarily well.” She heard the smile in his voice, but kept her attention on the lovely green jewel. “And I won’t take a cut of it. It’s all yours.”

She raised her head at that. There was a glimmer of pleading in his eyes. Perhaps he truly was sorry for what he’d done. And perhaps he’d picked this mission just for her—to prove, in his way, that he understood why she’d freed those slaves in Skull’s Bay. “I can assume Doneval is well guarded?”

“Very,” Arobynn said, fishing a letter from the desk behind him. “He’s waiting to do the deal until after the citywide celebrations, so he can run home the next day.”

Celaena glanced toward the ceiling, as if she could see through the wood beams and into her room on the floor above, where her trunks of gold now sat. She didn’t need the money, but if she were going to pay off her debt to Arobynn, her funds would be severely depleted. And to take this mission wouldn’t just be about killing—it would be about helping others, too. How many lives would be destroyed if she didn’t dispatch Doneval and his partner and retrieve those sensitive documents?

Arobynn approached her again, and she rose from her chair. He brushed her hair back from her face. “I missed you,” he said.

He opened his arms to her, but didn’t make a further move to embrace her. She studied his face. The Mute Master had told her that people dealt with their pain in different ways—that some chose to drown it, some chose to love it, and some chose to let it turn into rage. While she had no regrets about freeing those two hundred slaves from Skull’s Bay, she had betrayed Arobynn in doing it. Perhaps hurting her had been his way of coping with the pain of that.

And even though there was no excuse in this world for what he had done, Arobynn was all she had. The history that lay between them, dark and twisted and full of secrets, was forged by more than just gold. And if she left him, if she paid off her debts right now and never saw him again …

She took a step back, and Arobynn casually lowered his arms, not at all fazed by her rejection. “I’ll think about taking on Doneval.” It wasn’t a lie. She always took time to consider her missions—Arobynn had always encouraged that.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Celaena just gave him another long look before she left.

Her exhaustion hit her the moment she began climbing the polished marble steps of the sweeping grand staircase. A month of hard travel—after a month of grueling training and heartache. Every time she saw the scar on her neck, or touched it, or felt her clothes brush against it, a tremor of pain went through her as she remembered the betrayal that had caused it. She’d believed Ansel was her friend—a life-friend, a friend of the heart. But Ansel’s need for revenge had been greater than anything else. Still, wherever Ansel now was, Celaena hoped that she was finally facing what had haunted her for so long.

A passing servant saw her and bowed his head, eyes averted. Everyone who worked here knew more or less who she was, and would keep her identity secret on pain of death. Not that there was much of a point to it now, given that every single one of the Silent Assassins could identify her.

Celaena took a ragged breath, running a hand through her hair. Before entering the city this morning, she’d stopped at a tavern just outside Rifthold to bathe, to wash her filthy clothes, to put on some cosmetics. She hadn’t wanted to stride into the Keep looking like a gutter rat. But she still felt dirty.

She passed one of the upstairs drawing rooms, her brows rising at the sound of a pianoforte and laughing people inside. If Arobynn had company, then why had he been in his study, ever so busy, when she arrived?

Celaena ground her teeth. So that nonsense where he’d made her wait while he finished his work …

She clenched her hands into fists and was about to whirl and stomp back down the stairs to tell Arobynn that she was leaving and that he no longer owned her, when someone stepped into the elegantly appointed hall.

Celaena froze as she saw Sam Cortland.

Sam’s brown eyes were wide, his body rigid. As if it took some effort on his part, he shut the door to the hall washroom and strode toward her, past the teal velvet curtains hanging on the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the framed artwork on the walls, closer and closer. She remained still, taking in every inch of him before he stopped a few feet away.

No missing limbs, no limp, no indication of anything haunting him. His chestnut hair had gotten a little longer, but it suited him. And he was tan—gloriously tan, as if he’d spent the whole summer basking in the sun. Hadn’t Arobynn punished him at all?

“You’re back,” Sam said, as if he couldn’t quite believe that she stood before him.

She lifted her chin, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Obviously.”

He tilted his head slightly to the side. “How was the desert?”

There wasn’t a scratch on him. Of course, her face had healed, too, but … “Hot,” she said. Sam let out a breathy chuckle.

It wasn’t that she was mad at him for being uninjured. She was so relieved she could have vomited, actually. She just never imagined that seeing him today would feel so … strange. And after what had happened with Ansel, could she honestly say that she trusted him?

In the drawing room a few doors down, a woman let out a shrill giggle. How was it possible that she could have so many questions and yet so little to say?

Sam’s eyes slipped from her face to her neck, his brows drawing together for a heartbeat as he saw the thin new scar. “What happened?”

“Someone held a sword to my throat.”

His eyes darkened, but she didn’t want to explain the long, miserable story. She didn’t want to talk about Ansel, and she certainly didn’t want to talk about what had happened with Arobynn that night they’d returned from Skull’s Bay.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked quietly, taking another step closer.

It took her a moment to realize that his imagination had probably taken him to a far, far worse place when she said someone had held a blade to her throat.

“No,” she said. “No, not like that.”

“Then like what?” He was now looking more closely at her, at the almost invisible white line along her cheek—another gift from Ansel—at her hands, at everything. His lean, muscled body tensed. His chest had gotten broader, too.

“Like none of your business, that’s what,” she retorted.

“Tell me what happened,” he gritted out.

She gave him one of those simpering little smiles that she knew he hated. Things hadn’t been bad between them since Skull’s Bay, but after so many years of treating him awfully, she didn’t know how to slide back into that newfound respect and camaraderie they’d discovered for each other. “Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because,” he hissed, taking another step, “the last time I saw you, Celaena, you were unconscious on Arobynn’s carpet and so bloodied up that I couldn’t see your damn face.”

He was close enough that she could touch him now. Rain continued beating against the hall windows, a distant reminder that there was still a world around them. “Tell me,” he said.

I’ll kill you! Sam had screamed it at Arobynn as the King of the Assassins beat her. He’d roared it. In those horrible minutes, whatever bond had sprung up between her and Sam hadn’t broken. He’d switched loyalties—he’d chosen to stand by her, fight for her. If anything, that made him different from Ansel. Sam could have hurt or betrayed her a dozen times over, but he’d never jumped at the opportunity.

A half smile tugged at a corner of her lips. She’d missed him. Seeing the expression on her face, he gave her a bewildered sort of grin. She swallowed, feeling the words bubbling up through her—I missed you—but the door to the drawing room opened.

“Sam!” a dark-haired, green-eyed young woman chided, laughter on her lips. “There you—” The girl’s eyes met Celaena’s. Celaena stopped smiling as she recognized her.

A feline sort of smirk spread across the young woman’s stunning features, and she slipped out of the doorway and slunk over to them. Celaena took in each swish of her hips, the elegant angle of her hand, the exquisite dress that dipped low enough to reveal her generous bosom. “Celaena,” she cooed, and Sam eyed the two girls warily as she stopped beside him. Too close beside him for a casual acquaintance.

“Lysandra,” Celaena echoed. She’d met Lysandra when they were both ten, and in the seven years that they’d known each other, Celaena couldn’t recall a time when she didn’t want to beat in the girl’s face with a brick. Or throw her out a window. Or do any of a number of things she’d learned from Arobynn.

It didn’t help that Arobynn had spent a good deal of money assisting Lysandra in her rise from street orphan to one of the most anticipated courtesans in Rifthold’s history. He was good friends with Lysandra’s madam—and had been Lysandra’s doting benefactor for years. Lysandra and her madam remained the only courtesans aware that the girl Arobynn called his “niece” was actually his protégée. Celaena had never learned why Arobynn had told them, but whenever she complained about the risk of Lysandra revealing her identity, he seemed certain she would not. Celaena, not surprisingly, had trouble believing it; but perhaps threats from the King of the Assassins were enough to keep even the loud-mouthed Lysandra silent.

“I thought you’d been packed off to the desert,” Lysandra said, running a shrewd eye over Celaena’s clothes. Thank the Wyrd she’d bothered to change at that tavern. “Is it possible the summer passed that quickly? I guess when you’re having so much fun …”