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?”
She studied her companion. He certainly didn’t seem to have any moral qualms about the deal. While he might not trust Rolfe, it didn’t bother him that a hundred innocent souls were about to be traded like cattle. “I wanted to ask him more about the map on his hands.”
“Damn it, Celaena!” Sam slammed his fist onto the wooden floor. “Tell me the truth!”
“Why?” she asked, giving him a pout. “And how do you know I’m not telling the truth?”
Sam got to his feet and began pacing the length of their small room. He undid the top button of his black tunic, revealing the skin beneath. Something about it felt strangely intimate, and Celaena found herself quickly looking away from him.
“We’ve grown up together.” Sam stopped at the foot of her bed. “You think I don’t know how to tell when you’re cooking up some scheme? What do you want from Rolfe?”
If she told him, he’d do everything in his power to keep her from ruining the deal. And having one enemy was enough. With her plan still unformed, she had to keep Sam out of it. Besides, if worse came to worst, Rolfe might very well kill Sam for being involved. Or just for knowing her.
“Maybe I’m just unable to resist how handsome he is,” she said.
Sam went rigid. “He’s twelve years older than you.”
“So?” He didn’t think she was serious, did he?
He gave her a look so scathing it could have turned her to ash and stalked to the window, ripping his cloak down from the shutters.
“What are you doing?”
He flung open the wooden shutters on a sky full of rain and forked lightning. “I’m sick of suffocating. And if you’re interested in Rolfe, he’s bound to find out what you look like at some point, isn’t he? So why bother slowly roasting to death?”
“Shut the window.” He only crossed his arms. “Shut it,” she growled.
When he made no move to close the window, she jumped to her feet, upsetting the tray of food on her mattress, and shoved him aside hard enough for him to take a step back. Keeping her head down, she shut the window and shutters and threw his cape over the whole thing.
“Idiot,” she seethed. “What’s gotten into you?”
Sam stepped closer, his breath hot on her face. “I’m tired of all the melodrama and nonsense that happens whenever you wear that ridiculous mask and cloak. And I’m even more tired of you ordering me around.”
So that’s what this was about. “Get used to it.”
She made to turn to her bed, but he grabbed her wrist. “Whatever plan you’re concocting, whatever bit of intrigue you’re about to drag me into, just remember that you’re not head of the Assassins’ Guild yet; you still answer to Arobynn.”
She rolled her eyes, yanking her wrist out of his grasp. “Touch me again,” she said, striding to her bed and picking up the spilled food, “and you’ll lose that hand.”
Sam didn’t speak to her after that.