The Assassin and the Empire (Throne of Glass 0.5)(2)

She slipped inside, taking in the great room that greeted her: to the left, a shining oak dining table large enough to fit eight upholstered chairs around it; to her right, a large red couch, two armchairs, and a low-lying table set before the darkened fireplace.

The cold fireplace told her enough. Sam wasn’t home.

Celaena might have gone into the adjacent kitchen to devour the remaining half of the berry tart Sam hadn’t finished at lunch—might have kicked off her boots and reclined before a floor-to-ceiling window to take in the stunning nighttime view of the capital. She might have done any number of things had she not spied the note atop the small table beside the front door.

I’ve gone out, it said in Sam’s handwriting. Don’t wait up.

Celaena crumpled the note in her fist. She knew exactly where he’d gone—and exactly why he didn’t want her to wait up.

Because if she were asleep, then she most likely wouldn’t see the blood and bruises on him when he staggered in.

Swearing viciously, Celaena threw the crumpled note on the ground and stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her.

If there was a place in Rifthold where the scum of the capital could always be found, it was the Vaults.

On a relatively quiet street of the slums, Celaena flashed her money to the thugs standing outside the iron door and entered the pleasure hall. The heat and reek hit her almost immediately, but she didn’t let it crack her mask of cold calm as she descended into a warren of subterranean chambers. She took one look down at the teeming crowd around the main fighting pit and knew exactly who was causing them to cheer.

She swaggered down the stone steps, her hands in easy reach of the swords and daggers sheathed at the belt slung low over her hips. Most people would have opted to wear even more weapons to the Vaults—but Celaena had been here often enough to see the threats the usual clientele posed, and she knew she could look after herself just fine. Still, she kept her hood over her head, concealing most of her face in shadow. Being a young woman in a place like this wasn’t without its obstacles—especially when a good number of men came here for the other entertainment offered by the Vaults.

As she reached the bottom of the narrow stairs, the reek of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and worse things hit her full-on. It was enough to turn her stomach, and she was grateful that she hadn’t eaten anything recently.

She slipped through the crowd packed around the main pit, trying not to look to the exposed rooms on either side—to the girls and women who weren’t fortunate enough to be sold into an upper-class brothel like Lysandra. Sometimes, when Celaena was feeling particularly inclined to make herself miserable, she’d wonder if their fate would have been hers had Arobynn not taken her in. She’d wonder if she’d gaze into their eyes and see some version of herself staring back.

So it was easier not to look.

Celaena pushed past the men and women assembled around the sunken pit, keeping alert for grasping hands eager to part her from her money—or one of her exquisite blades.

She leaned against a wooden pillar and stared into the pit.

Sam moved so fast the hulking man in front of him didn’t stand a chance, dodging each knock-out blow with power and grace—some of it natural, some learned from years of training at the Assassin’s Keep. Both of them were shirtless, and Sam’s toned chest gleamed with sweat and blood. Not his blood, she noticed—the only injuries she could see were his split lip and a bruise on his cheek.

His opponent lunged, trying to tackle Sam to the sandy floor. But Sam whirled, and as the giant stumbled past, Sam drove his bare foot into his back. The man hit the sand with a thud that Celaena felt through the filthy stone floor. The crowd cheered.

Sam could have rendered the man unconscious in a heartbeat. He could have snapped his neck just now, or ended the fight any number of ways. But from the half-wild, self-satisfied gleam in Sam’s eyes, Celaena knew he was playing with his opponent. The injuries on his face had probably been intentional mistakes—to make it look like a somewhat even fight.

Fighting in the Vaults wasn’t just about knocking out your opponent—it was about making a show out of it. Seeing the crowd near savage with elation, Celaena was certain Sam had been giving them one hell of a performance. And, judging by the blood on Sam, it seemed like this performance was probably one of several encores.

A low growl rippled through her. There was only one rule in the Vaults: no weapons, just fists. But you could still get horribly hurt.

His opponent staggered to his feet, but Sam had finished waiting.

The poor brute didn’t even have time to raise his hands as Sam lashed out with a roundhouse kick. His foot slammed into the man’s face hard enough for the impact to sound over the shouts of the crowd.

The opponent reeled sideways, blood spurting from his mouth. Sam struck again, a punch to the gut. The man doubled over, only to meet Sam’s knee to his nose. His head snapped skyward, and he stumbled back, back, back—

The crowd screamed its triumph as Sam’s fist, coated in blood and sand, connected with the man’s exposed face. Even before he finished swinging, Celaena knew it was a knockout punch.

The man hit the sand and didn’t move.

Panting, Sam lifted his bloodied arms to the surrounding crowd.

Celaena’s ears nearly shattered at the answering roar. She gritted her teeth as the master of ceremonies strode onto the sand, proclaiming Sam the victor.