The Assassin and the Healer (Throne of Glass 0.2)(2)

Nolan was watching the entire encounter, so Yrene curtsied and walked back to the bar through the field of groping hands, eyes downcast as she plastered a distant smile on her face.

Celaena Sardothien sat at her table in the absolutely worthless inn, wondering how her life had gone to hell so quickly.

She hated Innish. Hated the reek of trash and filth, hated the heavy blanket of mist that shrouded it day and night, hated the second-rate merchants and mercenaries and generally miserable people who occupied it.

No one here knew who she was, or why she’d come; no one knew that the girl beneath the hood was Celaena Sardothien, the most notorious assassin in Adarlan’s empire. But then again, she didn’t want them to know. Couldn’t let them know, actually. And didn’t want them knowing that she was just over a week away from turning seventeen, either.

She’d been here for two days now—two days spent either holed up in her despicable room (a “suite,” the oily innkeeper had the nerve to call it), or down here in the taproom that stank of sweat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies.

She would have left if she’d had any choice. But she was forced to be here, thanks to her master, Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins. She’d always been proud of her status as his chosen heir—always flaunted it. But now … This journey was her punishment for destroying his atrocious slave-trade agreement with the Pirate Lord of Skull’s Bay. So unless she wanted to risk the trek through the Bogdano Jungle—the feral bit of land that bridged the continent to the Deserted Land—sailing across the Gulf of Oro was the only way. Which meant waiting here, in this dump of a tavern, for a ship to take her to Yurpa.

Celaena sighed and took a long drink of her ale. She almost spat it out. Disgusting. Cheap as cheap could be, like the rest of this place. Like the stew she hadn’t touched. Whatever meat was in there wasn’t from any creature worth eating. Bread and mild cheese it was, then.

Celaena sat back in her seat, watching the barmaid with the brown-gold hair slip through the labyrinth of tables and chairs. The girl nimbly dodged the men who groped her, all without disturbing the tray she carried over her shoulder. What a waste of swift feet, good balance, and intelligent, stunning eyes. The girl wasn’t dumb. Celaena had noted the way she watched the room and its patrons—the way she watched Celaena herself. What personal hell had driven her to work here?

Celaena didn’t particularly care. The questions were mostly to drive the boredom away. She’d already devoured the three books she’d carried with her from Rifthold, and not one of the shops in Innish had a single book for sale—only spices, fish, out-of-fashion clothing, and nautical gear. For a port town, it was pathetic. But the Kingdom of Melisande had fallen on hard times in the past eight and a half years—since the King of Adarlan had conquered the continent and redirected trade through Eyllwe instead of Melisande’s few eastern ports.

The whole world had fallen on hard times, it seemed. Celaena included.

She fought the urge to touch her face. The swelling from the beating Arobynn had given her had gone down, but the bruises remained. She avoided looking in the sliver of mirror above her dresser, knowing what she’d see: mottled purple and blue and yellow along her cheekbones, a vicious black eye, and a still-healing split lip.

It was all a reminder of what Arobynn had done the day she returned from Skull’s Bay—proof of how she’d betrayed him by saving two hundred slaves from a terrible fate. She had made a powerful enemy of the Pirate Lord, and she was fairly certain she’d ruined her relationship with Arobynn, but she had been right. It was worth it; it would always be worth it, she told herself.

Even if she was sometimes so angry that she couldn’t think straight. Even if she’d gotten into not one, not two, but three bar fights in the two weeks that she’d been traveling from Rifthold to the Red Desert. One of the brawls, at least, had been rightfully provoked: a man had cheated at a round of cards. But the other two …

There was no denying it: she’d merely been spoiling for a fight. No blades, no weapons. Just fists and feet. Celaena supposed she should feel bad about it—about the broken noses and jaws, about the heaps of unconscious bodies in her wake. But she didn’t.

She couldn’t bring herself to care, because those moments she spent brawling were the few moments she felt like herself again. When she felt like Adarlan’s greatest assassin, Arobynn Hamel’s chosen heir.

Even if her opponents were drunks and untrained fighters; even if she should know better.

The barmaid reached the safety of the counter, and Celaena glanced about the room. The innkeeper was still watching her, as he had for the past two days, wondering how he could squeeze even more money out of her purse. There were several other men observing her, too. Some she recognized from previous nights, while others were new faces that she quickly sized up. Was it fear or luck that had kept them away from her so far?

She’d made no secret of the fact that she carried money with her. And her clothes and weapons spoke volumes about her wealth, too. The ruby brooch she wore practically begged for trouble—she wore it to invite trouble, actually. It was a gift from Arobynn on her sixteenth birthday; she hoped someone would try to steal it. If they were good enough, she might just let them. So it was only a matter of time, really, before one of them tried to rob her.

And before she decided she was bored of fighting only with fists and feet. She glanced at the sword by her side; it glinted in the tavern’s dank light.