The Assassin and the Pirate Lord (Throne of Glass 0.1)(17)

“I don’t know. I’ll try to disable their ships, which might slow them down.” They reached the narrow stairs that led to the upper decks. “There’s one thing I need you to do,” she continued, and he looked up at her, his eyes bright. “My colleague doesn’t speak Eyllwe. I need you to take a rowboat to the other ship and tell them all that I’ve told you, and unlock their chains. We have to return to shore now, so you’ll have to go alone.”

Dia sucked in a breath, but nodded. “I will.”

After Dia told the people in the cargo bay to take the unconscious guards to the brig, he crept with Celaena onto the empty deck. He cringed at the sight of the unconscious guards, but didn’t object when she swept Jon’s cloak over his shoulders and concealed his face in the folds of the cloak. Or when she gave him Jon’s sword and dagger.

Sam was already waiting at the side of the ship, hidden from the far-seeing eyes of the watchtower. He helped Dia into the first rowboat before climbing into the second and waiting for Celaena to get aboard.

Blood gleamed on Sam’s dark tunic. They’d both packed a change of clothes. Silently, Sam picked up the oars, but Celaena cleared her throat. Dia turned back to her.

She inclined her head east, toward the mouth of the bay. “Remember: you must start rowing at sunrise, even if the chain is up. Every moment you delay means losing the tide.”

Dia grasped the oars. “We will be ready.”

“Then good luck,” she said. Without another word, Dia began rowing to the other ship, his strokes a bit too loud for her liking, but not loud enough to be detected.

Sam, too, started rowing, slipping around the curve of the prow and heading toward the docks at a casual, unsuspicious pace.

“Nervous?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the steady slice of his oars through the calm bay.

“No,” she lied.

“Me, too.”

Ahead of them were the golden lights of Skull’s Bay. Hoots and cheers echoed across the water. Word had certainly spread about the free ale.

She smiled slightly. “Get ready to unleash hell.”

Chapter Eight

Though the chant of the crowd roared around them, Rolfe and Sam had their eyes closed in concentration as their throats moved up and down, down and up, chugging their mugs of cold ale. And Celaena, watching it from behind her mask, could not stop laughing.

It wasn’t that hard to pretend Sam was drunk and they were having the grandest time in the world. Mostly because of her mask, but also because Sam played the part very, very well.

Rolfe slammed his mug on the table, letting out a satisfied “Ah!” and wiping his wet mouth on his sleeve as the gathered crowd cheered. Celaena cackled, her masked face oozing sweat. Like everyplace else on this island, the tavern was suffocatingly hot, and the odor of ale and unwashed bodies poured from every crevice and stone.

It was packed to capacity. A three-man ensemble made up of an accordion, a fiddle, and a tambourine played raucously in the corner by the hearth. Pirates swapped stories and called for their favorite songs. Peasants and lowlifes drank themselves into oblivion and gambled on rigged games of chance. Harlots patrolled the room, milling around tables and sitting on laps.

Across from her, Rolfe grinned, and Sam drained the last from his mug. Or so Rolfe thought. Given how often drinks were spilled and splashed, no one really noticed the constant puddle around Sam’s mug, and the hole he’d drilled into the bottom of it was too small to detect.

The crowd dispersed, and Celaena laughed as she raised her hand. “Another round, gentlemen?” she cried, signaling for the barmaid.

“Well,” Rolfe said, “I think it’s safe to say that I like you much better like this than when we’re discussing business.”

Sam leaned in, a conspirator’s grin on his face. “Oh, I do, too. She’s horrible most of the time.”

Celaena kicked him—hard enough, because she knew it wasn’t entirely a lie—and Sam yelped. Rolfe chuckled.

She flipped the barmaid a copper as the woman refilled Rolfe’s and Sam’s mugs.

“So, will I ever get to see the face behind the legendary Celaena Sardothien?” Rolfe leaned forward to rest his arms on the sodden table. The clock behind the bar read three thirty in the morning. They had to act soon. Given how crowded the tavern was, and how many of the pirates were already halfway unconscious, it was a miracle there was any ale left in Skull’s Bay. If Arobynn and Rolfe didn’t kill her for freeing the slaves, then Rolfe might very well murder her for starting a tab with not nearly enough money to pay for it all.

She leaned closer to Rolfe. “If you make my master and me as much money as you claim, I’ll show you my face.”

Rolfe glanced at the tattooed map on his hands.

“Did you really sell your soul for that?” she asked.

“When you show me your face, I’ll tell you the truth.”

She extended her hand. “Deal.” He shook it. Sam raised his mug—already drained half an inch from the small hole in the bottom—and saluted their promise before both men drank. She fished out a pack of cards from a cloak pocket. “Care for a game of kings?”

“If you aren’t broke by the time this night is over,” Rolfe said, “then playing against me will guarantee it.”

She clicked her tongue. “Oh, I highly doubt that.” She broke and shuffled the deck three times, and dealt the cards.