Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(78)

That was all Chaol needed to hear as he took Ren’s weight and hauled him to the large barrels, then eased him onto the ground. Ren stifled a groan of pain, but kept still. There was a small crack between two of the barrels where Chaol could see the alley, and the six men who stalked into it almost shoulder-­to-­shoulder. He ­couldn’t make out much more than dark tunics and cloaks.

The men paused when they beheld Aedion standing before them, still hooded. The general drew his fighting knives and purred, “None of you are leaving this alley alive.”

•

They didn’t.

Chaol marveled at Aedion’s skill—­the speed and swiftness and utter confidence that made it like watching a brutal, unforgiving dance.

It was over before it really started. The six assailants seemed at ease with weapons, but against a man with Fae blood surging in his veins, they ­were useless.

No wonder Aedion had risen to such high ranking so quickly. He’d never seen another man fight like that. Only—­only Celaena had come close. He ­couldn’t tell which of them would win if they ­were ever matched against each other, but together . . . Chaol’s heart went cold at the thought. Six men dead in a matter of moments—­six.

Aedion ­wasn’t smiling as he came back over to Chaol and dropped a scrap of fabric on the ground before them. Even Ren, panting through clenched teeth, looked.

It was a black, heavy material—­and emblazoned on it in dark thread, nearly invisible save for the glint of the moonlight, was a wyvern. The royal sigil.

“I don’t know these men,” Chaol said, more to himself than to protest his innocence. “I’ve never seen that uniform.”

“From the sound of it,” Aedion said, that rage still simmering in his voice as he cocked his head toward noises that Chaol could not hear with his human ears, “there are more of them out there, and they’re combing the slums door-to-door for Ren. We need a place to hide.”

Ren held on to consciousness long enough to say, “I know where.”

30

Chaol held his breath for the entire walk as he and Aedion gripped the half-­conscious Ren between them, the three of them swaying and staggering, looking for all the world like drunkards out for a night of thrills in the slums. The streets ­were still teeming despite the hour, and one of the women they passed slouched over and gripped Aedion’s tunic, spewing a slur of sultry words. But the general used a gentle hand to disengage her and said, “I don’t pay for what I can get for free.”

Somehow, it felt like a lie, since Chaol hadn’t seen or heard of Aedion sharing anyone’s bed all these weeks. But perhaps knowing that Aelin was alive changed his priorities.

They reached the opium den Ren had named in between spurts of unconsciousness just as the shouts of soldiers storming into boarding­houses, inns, and taverns echoed from down the street. Chaol didn’t wait to see who they ­were and shoved through the carved wooden door. The reek of unwashed bodies, waste, and sweet smoke clotted in Chaol’s nostrils. Even Aedion coughed and gave Ren, who was almost a dead weight in their arms, a disapproving stare.

But the aging madam swept forward to greet them, her long tunic and over-­robe flowing on some phantom wind, and ushered them down the wood-­paneled hallway, her feet soft on the worn, colorful rugs. She began prattling off prices and the night’s specials, but Chaol took one look in her green, cunning eyes and knew she was familiar with Ren—­someone who had probably built herself her own empire ­here in Rifthold.

She set them up in a veiled-­off alcove littered with worn silk cushions that stank of sweet smoke and sweat, and after she lifted her brows at Chaol, he handed over three gold pieces. Ren groaned from where he was sprawled on the cushions between Aedion and Chaol, but before Chaol could so much as say a word, the madam returned with a bundle in her arms. “They are next door,” she said, her accent lovely and strange. “Hurry.”

She’d brought a tunic. Aedion made quick work of stripping Ren, whose face was deathly pale, lips bloodless. The general swore as they beheld the wound—­a slice low in his belly. “Any deeper and his damn intestines would be hanging out,” Aedion said. He took a strip of clean fabric from the madam and wrapped it around the young lord’s muscled abdomen. There ­were scars all over Ren already. If he survived, this probably would not be the worst of them.

The madam knelt before Chaol and opened the box in her hands. Three pipes now lay on the low-­lying table before them. “You need to play the part,” she breathed, glancing over her shoulder through the thick black veil, no doubt calculating how much time they had left.

Chaol didn’t even try to object as she used rouge to redden the skin around his eyes, applied some paste and powder to leech the color from his face, shook free a few buttons on his tunic, and mussed his hair. “Lay back, limp and loose, and keep the pipe in your hand. Smoke it if you need to take the edge off.” That was all she told him before she got to work on Aedion, who had finished stuffing Ren into his clean clothes. In moments, the three of them ­were reclined on the reeking cushions, and the madam had bustled off with Ren’s bloody tunic.

The lord’s breathing was labored and uneven, and Chaol fought the shaking in his own hands as the front door banged open. The soft feet of the madam hurried past to greet the men. Though Chaol strained to hear, Aedion seemed to be listening without a problem.