Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(18)

“You certainly had your moments back then.” Archer returned her smile and sketched a bow. “I’ll have to move some appointments around, but I’d be delighted.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a cream-colored card, engraved with his name and address. “Just send word about where and when, and I’ll be there.”

Celaena had been quiet since Archer left, and Chaol hadn’t tried to initiate conversation with her, though he was near bursting to say something.

He didn’t even know where to start.

During the whole exchange, all he’d really been able to think about was how much he wanted to slam Archer’s pretty face against the stone building.

Chaol wasn’t a fool. He knew some of her smiles and blushing hadn’t been acted. And though he had no claim on her—though making a claim would be the stupidest thing he could ever do—the thought of her being susceptible to Archer’s charms made him want to have a little chat with the courtesan.

Rather than head back to the castle, she began walking through the wealthy district in the heart of the city, her steps unhurried. After nearly thirty minutes of silence, Chaol figured he’d cooled his temper enough to be civil. “Laena?” he demanded.

Slightly civil, at least.

The gold streaks in her turquoise eyes were bright in the afternoon sun. “Of all the things we said back there, that is what bothered you most?”

It did. Wyrd keep him, it bothered the hell out of him.

“When you said you knew him, I didn’t realize you meant that well.” He fought the strange, sudden temper that was honing itself again. Even if she’d been charmed by his looks, she was going to kill Archer, he had to remind himself.

“My history with Archer will allow me to get him to provide information about whatever this rebel movement is,” she said, looking up at the fine houses they passed. The residential streets were tranquil despite the bustling city center only a few blocks down. “He’s one of the few people who actually likes me, you know. Or he did years ago. It shouldn’t be too hard to get some inkling of what this group might be planning against the king—or who the other members might be.”

Part of him, he knew, should be ashamed for finding some relief in the fact that she was going to kill him. He was a better man than that—and he certainly wasn’t the territorial type.

And the gods knew he had no claim on her. He’d seen the look on her face when Archer had mentioned Sam.

He’d heard of Sam Cortland’s death in passing. He’d never known that Celaena and Sam had crossed paths, that Celaena had ever … ever loved that fiercely. On the night she was captured, she hadn’t been out to collect cold coin for a contract—no, she’d gone into that house to get revenge for the sort of loss he couldn’t begin to imagine.

They walked down the street, her side nearly pressed against his. He fought against the urge to lean into her, to tuck her in closer.

“Chaol?” she said after a few minutes.

“Hmm?”

“You know I absolutely hate it when he calls me Laena, don’t you?”

A smile tugged at his lips, along with a flicker of relief. “So the next time I want to piss you off …”

“Don’t you even think about it.”

His smile spread, and the flicker of relief turned to something that punched him in the gut when she smiled back.

Chapter 8

She had planned to spend the rest of the day following Archer from a distance, but as they walked from the tea court, Chaol informed her that the king had ordered her to assist with guard duty at a state dinner that night. And though she could think of a thousand excuses to get out of it, any suspicious behavior on her part could draw the wrong sort of attention. If she was actually going to listen to Elena this time, she needed the king—she needed his entire empire—to think she was his obedient servant.

The state dinner was in the Great Hall, and it took all of Celaena’s self-control to keep from sprinting to the long table in the center of the room and horking down the food right off the plates of the gathered councilmen and preening nobility. Roasted lamb rubbed with thyme and lavender, duck glazed with orange sauce, pheasant swimming in green-onion gravy … Truly, it wasn’t fair.

Chaol had stationed her by a pillar near the glass patio doors. Though she wasn’t wearing the royal guards’ black uniform with the gold embroidered wyvern across the chest, she blended in well enough in her dark clothes. At least she was so far away from it all that no one could hear her stomach grumbling.

Other tables had been set up, too—full of lesser nobility who had been invited to join, all impeccably dressed for the occasion. Most of the attention—of the guards, of the nobility—remained on the center table, where the king and queen sat with their innermost court. Duke Perrington, the hulking brute, also sat there, and Dorian and Roland were nearby, chatting with the precious, pampered men who made up the king’s council. Men who had bled other kingdoms dry to pay for the clothes and jewels and gold in this room. Not that she was much better, in some regards.

Though she tried to avoid looking at the king, every time she did steal a glance at him, she wondered why he bothered attending these events when he could do away with this nonsense altogether. She gleaned nothing, though. And she didn’t think for a moment that he’d be stupid enough to reveal anything about his true agenda in front of all these people.