The Assassin and the Underworld (Throne of Glass 0.4)(22)

She swam hard for the wall, fighting to keep the current from sweeping her past the tunnel. She hit the wall and clung to it, easing down the side. The tunnel was high up enough that she had to reach, her fingers aching as they dug into the stone. But she had a grip, and even though pain lanced through her nails, she hauled herself into the narrow passage.

It was so small inside that she had to lie flat on her belly. And it was full of mud and the gods knew what else, but there—far ahead—was a shaft of lamplight. An upward tunnel that led to the street. Behind her, the sewer continued flooding, the roaring waters near deafening. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be trapped.

With the ceiling so low, she had to keep her head down, her face nearly in the putrid mud as she stretched out her arms and pulled. Inch by inch, she dragged herself through the tunnel, staring at the light ahead.

Then the water reached the level of the tunnel. Within moments, it swept past her feet, past her legs, then her abdomen, and then her face. She crawled faster, not needing light to tell how bloody her hands were. Each bit of grit inside the cuts was like fire. Go, she thought to herself with each thrust and pull of her arms, each kick of her feet. Go, go, go. The word was the only thing that kept her from screaming. Because once she started screaming … that was when she’d concede to death.

The water in the passage was a few inches deep by the time she hit the upward tunnel, and she nearly sobbed at the sight of the ladder. It was probably fifteen feet to the surface. Through the circular holes in the large grate she could see a hovering streetlamp. She forgot the pain in her hands as she climbed the rusted ladder, willing it not to break. Water filled the tunnel bottom, swirling with debris at her feet.

She was quickly at the top, and even allowed herself a little smile as she pushed against the round grate.

But it didn’t budge.

She balanced her feet on the rickety ladder and pushed with both hands. It still didn’t move. She angled her body on the upper rung so that her back and shoulders braced against the grate and threw herself into it. Nothing. Not a groan, not a hint of metal giving way. It had to be rusted shut. She pounded against it until she felt something crack in her hand. Her vision flashed with pain, black and white sparks dancing, and she made sure the bone wasn’t broken before pounding again. Nothing. Nothing.

The water was close now, its muddy froth so near that she could reach down and touch it.

She threw herself into the grate one last time. It didn’t move.

If people were off the streets until the mandatory flooding was over … Rain water poured into her mouth, her eyes, her nose. She banged against the metal, praying for anyone to hear her over the roar of the rain, for anyone to see the muddy, bloodied fingers straining upward from an ordinary city grate. The water hit her boots. She shoved her fingers through the grate holes and began screaming.

She screamed until her lungs burned, screamed for help, for anyone to hear. And then—

“Celaena?”

It was a shout, and it was close, and Celaena sobbed when she heard Sam’s voice, nearly muffled by the rain and roaring waters beneath her. He said he’d come by after helping with Lysandra’s party—he must have been on his way to or from Doneval’s house. She wriggled her fingers through the grate hole, pounding with her other hand against the grate. “HERE! In the sewer!”

She could feel the rumble of steps, and then … “Holy gods.” Sam’s face swam into view through the grate. “I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes,” he said. “Hold on.” His callused fingers latched onto the holes. She saw them go white with strain, saw his face turn red, then … He swore.

The water had reached her calves. “Get me the hell out of here.”

“Shove with me,” he breathed, and as he pulled, she pushed. The grate wouldn’t move. They tried again, and again. The water hit her knees. By whatever luck, the grate was far enough away from Doneval’s house that the guards couldn’t hear them.

“Get as high as you can,” he barked. She already was, but she didn’t say anything. She caught the flash of a knife and heard the scrape of a blade against the grate. He was trying to loosen the metal by using the blade as a lever. “Push on the other side.”

She pushed. Dark water lapped at her thighs.

The knife snapped in two.

Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Come on.”

The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said.

“I’m trying!”

“Sam,” she repeated.

“No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No.”

He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn’t going to come—not fast enough.

She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she’d struck with the gods that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.

“Please,” Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the grate, then tried to wedge another dagger under the lid. “Please don’t.”