The Assassin’s Blade: The Throne of Glass Prequel Novellas

Rourke Farran was a busy, busy man. Celaena and Sam were waiting a block away from Jayne’s house before dawn the next morning, both of them wearing nondescript clothing and cloaks with hoods deep enough to cover most of their features without giving alarm. Farran was out and about before the sun had fully risen. They trailed his carriage through the city, observing him at each stop. It was a wonder he even had time to indulge in his sadistic delights, because Jayne’s business certainly took up plenty of his day.

He took the same black carriage everywhere—more proof of his arrogance, since it made him an easily marked target. Unlike Doneval, who was constantly guarded, Farran seemed to deliberately go without guards, daring anyone to take him on.

They followed him to the bank, to the dining rooms and taverns owned by Jayne, to the brothels and the black-market stalls hidden in crumbling alleys, then back to the bank again. He made several stops at Jayne’s house in between, too. And then he surprised Celaena once by going into a bookshop—not to threaten the owner or collect dues, but to buy books.

She’d hated that, for some reason. Especially when, despite Sam’s protests, she’d quickly snuck in while the bookseller was in the back and spied the receipt ledger behind the desk. Farran hadn’t bought books about torture or death or anything wicked. Oh, no. They’d been adventure novels. Novels that she had read and enjoyed. The idea of Farran reading them too felt like a violation, somehow.

The day slipped by, and they learned little except for how brazenly he traveled about. Sam should have no trouble dispatching him tomorrow night.

When the sun was shifting into the golden hues of late afternoon, Farran pulled up at the nondescript iron door that led down into the Vaults.

At the end of the street, Celaena and Sam watched him as they pretended to be washing dung off their boots at a public spigot.

“It seems fitting that Jayne owns the Vaults,” Sam said quietly over the gushing water.

Celaena gave him a glare—or she would have, if the hood hadn’t been in the way. “Why do you think I got so mad about you fighting there? If you ever got into any trouble with the people at the Vaults, ever pissed them off, you’re significant enough that Farran himself would come to punish you.”

“I can handle Farran.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t expect him actually to make a visit, though. Seems too dirty here, even for him.”

“Should we take a look?” The street was quiet. The Vaults came alive at night, but during the day, there wasn’t anyone in the alley except for a few stumbling drunks and the half-dozen guards always posted outside.

It was a risk, she supposed—going into the Vaults after Farran—but … If Farran truly rivaled her for notoriety, it would be interesting to get a sense of what he was really like before Sam ended his life tomorrow night. “Let’s go,” she said.

They flashed silver at the guards outside, then tossed it to the guards inside, and they were in. The thugs asked no questions, and didn’t demand they remove their weapons or their hoods. Their usual clientele wanted discretion while partaking in the twisted delights of the Vaults.

From the top of the stairs just inside the front door, Celaena instantly spotted Farran sitting at one of the scarred and burned wooden tables in the center of the room, talking to a man she recognized as Helmson, the master of ceremonies during the fights. A small lunchtime crowd had gathered at the other tables, though they’d all cleared a ring around Farran. At the back of the chamber, the pits were dark and quiet, slaves working to scrape off the blood and gore before the night’s revelries.

Celaena tried not to look too long at the shackles and broken posture of the slaves. It was impossible to tell where they’d come from—if they’d begun as prisoners of war or had just been stolen from their kingdoms. She wondered if it was better to wind up as a slave here, or a prisoner in a brutal labor camp like Endovier. Both seemed like similar versions of a living hell.

Compared to the teeming crowds the other night, the Vaults were practically deserted today. Even the prostitutes in the exposed chambers flanking the sides of the cavernous space were resting while they could. Many of the girls slept in tangled heaps on the narrow cots, barely hidden from view by the shabby curtains designed to give the illusion of privacy.

She wanted to burn this place into nothing but ashes. And then let everyone know that this wasn’t the sort of thing Adarlan’s Assassin stood for. Perhaps after they’d taken out Farran and Jayne, she’d do just that. One final bit of glory and retribution from Celaena Sardothien—one last chance to make them remember her forever before she left.

Sam kept close to her as they reached the bottom of the stairs and strode to the bar tucked into the shadows beneath. A wisp of a man stood behind it, pretending to wipe down the wooden surface while his watery blue eyes stayed fixed on Farran.

“Two ales,” Sam growled. Celaena thumped a silver coin down on the bar, and the barkeep’s attention snapped to them. She was grossly overpaying, but the barkeep’s slender, scabbed hands vanished the silver in the blink of an eye.

There were enough people still inside the Vaults that Celaena and Sam could blend in—mostly drunks who never left the premises and people who seemed to enjoy this sort of wretched environment while eating their lunch. Celaena and Sam pretended to drink their ales—sloshing the alcohol on the ground when no one was looking—and watched Farran.

There was a locked wooden chest resting on the table beside Farran and the squat master of ceremonies—a chest that Celaena had no doubt was full of the Vaults’ earnings from the night before. Farran’s attention was fixed with feline intensity on Helmson, the chest seemingly forgotten. It was practically an invitation.

“How mad do you think he’d be if I stole that chest?” Celaena pondered.

“Don’t even entertain the idea.”

She clicked her tongue. “Spoilsport.”

Whatever Farran and Helmson were discussing, it was over quickly. But instead of going back up the stairs, Farran walked over to the warren of girls. He prowled past every alcove and stone chamber, and the girls all straightened. Sleeping ones were hastily awakened, any sign of sleep vanished by the time Farran stalked past. He looked them over, inspecting, making comments to the man who hovered behind him. Helmson nodded and bowed and barked orders at the girls.

Even from across the room, the terror on the girls’ faces was evident.

Both Celaena and Sam struggled to keep from going rigid. Farran crossed the large chamber and inspected the dens on the other side. By that time, the girls there were prepared. When Farran had finished, he looked over his shoulder and nodded to Helmson.

Helmson sagged with what could only be relief, but then paled and quickly found somewhere else to be as Farran snapped his fingers at one of the sentries near a small door. Immediately, the door opened and a shackled, dirty, muscular man was dragged out by another sentry. The prisoner looked half-dead already, but the moment he saw Farran, he started begging, thrashing against the sentry’s grip.

It was hard to hear, but Celaena discerned enough from the man’s frantic pleading to get the gist of it: he was a fighter in the Vaults, owed Jayne more money than he could ever repay, and had tried to cheat his way out of it.

Although the prisoner promised to repay Jayne with interest, Farran just smiled, letting the man babble until at last he paused for a shuddering breath. Then Farran jerked his chin toward a door hidden behind a ragged curtain, and his smile grew as the sentry dragged the still-pleading man toward it. As the door opened, Celaena caught a glimpse of a stairwell that swept downward.

Without so much as a look in the direction of the patrons discreetly watching from their tables, Farran led the sentry and his prisoner inside and shut the door. Whatever was about to happen was Jayne’s version of justice.

Sure enough, five minutes later, a scream pierced through the Vaults.

It was more animal than human. She’d heard screams like that before—had witnessed enough torture at the Keep to know that when people screamed like that, it meant that the pain was just beginning. By the end, when that sort of pain happened, the victims had usually blown out their vocal cords and could only emit hoarse, shattered shrieks.

Celaena gritted her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. The barkeep gave a sharp wave to the minstrels in the corner, and they immediately started up a song to cover the noise. But screams still echoed up from beneath the stone floor. Farran wouldn’t kill the man right away. No, his pleasure came from the pain itself.

“It’s time to leave,” Celaena said, noting how tightly Sam gripped his mug.

“We can’t just—”

“We can,” she said sharply. “Believe me, I’d like to burst in there, too. But this place is designed like a death trap, and I’ve no desire to make my final stand here, or right now.” Sam was still staring at the stairwell door. “When the time comes,” she added, putting a hand on his arm, “you’ll make sure he pays his debt.”

Sam turned to her, his face concealed within the shadows of the hood, but she could read the aggression in his body well enough. “He’ll pay his debt for all of this,” Sam snarled. And that’s when Celaena noticed that some of the girls were weeping, some shook, some just stared at nothing. Yes, Farran had visited before, had used that room to do Jayne’s dirty work—while reminding everyone else not to cross the Crime Lord. How many horrors had these girls witnessed—or at least heard?

The screams were still rising up from below when they left the Vaults.

She had intended to lead them home, but Sam insisted on going to the public park built along a well-off neighborhood beside the Avery River. After meandering along the neat gravel walkways, he slumped onto a bench facing the water. He pulled off his hood and rubbed his face with his broad hands.

“We’re not like that,” he whispered through his fingers.

Celaena sank onto the wooden bench. She knew exactly what he meant. The same thought had been echoing through her head as they walked here. They had been taught how to kill and maim and torture—she knew how to skin a man and keep him alive while doing it. She knew how to keep someone awake and coherent during long hours of torment—knew where to inflict the most pain without having someone bleed out.

Arobynn had been so, so clever about it, too. He’d brought in the most despicable people—rapists, murderers, rogue assassins who had butchered innocents—and he’d made her read all of the information he’d gathered on them. Made her read about all of the awful things they’d done until she was so enraged she couldn’t think straight, until she was aching to make them suffer. He’d honed her anger into a lethal blade. And she’d let him.

Before Skull’s Bay, she’d done it all and had rarely questioned it. She’d pretended that she had some moral code, lied to herself and said that since she didn’t enjoy it, it meant that she had some excuse, but … she had still stood in that chamber beneath the Assassins’ Keep and seen the blood flow toward the drain in the sloped floor.

“We can’t be like that,” Sam said.

She took his hands, easing them away from his face. “We’re not like Farran. We know how to do it, but we don’t enjoy it. That’s the difference.”

His brown eyes were distant as he watched the gentle current of the Avery making its way toward the nearby sea. “When Arobynn ordered us to do things like that, we never said no.”

“We had no choice. But we do now.” Once they left Rifthold, they’d never have to make a choice like that again—they could create their own codes.

Sam looked at her, his expression so haunted and bleak it made her sick. “But there was always that part. That part that did enjoy it when it was someone who truly deserved it.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, there was always that part. But we still had a line, Sam—we still stayed on the other side of it. Lines don’t exist for someone like Farran.”

They weren’t like Farran—Sam wasn’t like Farran. She knew that in her bones. Sam would never be like Farran. He’d never be like her, either. She sometimes wondered if he knew just how dark she could turn.

Sam leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder. “When we die, do you think we’ll be punished for the things we’ve done?”

She looked at the far bank of the river, where a row of ramshackle houses and docks had been built. “When we die,” she said, “I don’t think the gods will even know what to do with us.”

Sam glanced at her, a hint of amusement shining in his eyes.

Celaena smiled at him, and the world, for one flickering heartbeat, felt right.

The dagger whined as Celaena sharpened it, the reverberations shooting through her hands. Seated beside her on the floor of the great room, Sam pored over a map of the city, tracing streets with his fingers. The fireplace before them cast everything into flickering shadows, a welcome warmth on a chill night.

They had returned to the Vaults in time to see Farran entering his carriage again. So they spent the rest of the afternoon stalking him—more trips to the bank and other locations, more stops back at Jayne’s house. She’d gone off on her own for two hours to trail Jayne—to get another subtle glimpse at the house and see where the Crime Lord went. It was two uneventful hours of figuring out where his spies hid on the streets, since Jayne didn’t emerge from the building at all.

If Sam planned to dispatch Farran tomorrow night, they agreed that the best time to do it would be when he took a carriage from the house to wherever else he had dealings, either for himself or Jayne. After a long day of running errands for Jayne, Farran was sure to be drained, his defenses sloppy. He wouldn’t know what was coming until his lifeblood spilled.

Sam would be wearing the special suit that the Master Tinkerer from Melisande had made for him, which in itself was its own armory. The sleeves possessed concealed built-in swords, the boots were specially designed for climbing, and, thanks to Celaena, Sam’s suit was equipped with an impenetrable patch of Spidersilk right over his heart.

Celaena had her own suit, of course—used only sparingly now that the convoy from Melisande had returned home. If either suit needed repairs, it’d be near impossible to find someone in Rifthold skilled enough. But dispatching Farran was definitely an occasion worth the risk. In addition to the suit’s defenses, Sam would also be equipped with the extra blades and daggers that Celaena was now sharpening. She tested an edge against her hand, smiling grimly as her skin stung. “Sharp enough to cut air,” she said, sheathing it and setting it down beside her.

“Well,” Sam said, eyes still flitting across the map, “let’s hope I don’t have to get close enough to use it.”

If all went according to plan, Sam would only need to fire four arrows: one each to disable the carriage driver and the footman, one for Farran—and one more just to make sure Farran was dead.

Celaena picked up another dagger and began sharpening that as well. She jerked her chin toward the map. “Escape routes?”

“A dozen planned already,” Sam said, and showed her. With Jayne’s house as a starting point, Sam had picked multiple streets in every direction where he could fire his arrows—which led to multiple escape routes that would get Sam away as quickly as possible.

“Remind me again why I’m not going?” The dagger in her hands let out a long whine.

“Because you’ll be here, packing?”

“Packing?” She stilled the sharpening knife in her hand.

He returned his attention to the map. Then he said, very carefully, “I secured us passage on a ship to the southern continent, leaving in five days.”

“The southern continent.”

Sam nodded, still focusing on the map. “If we’re going to get away from Rifthold, then we’re going to get away from this entire continent, too.”

“That wasn’t what we discussed. We decided to move to another city on this continent. And what if there’s another Assassins’ Guild on the southern continent?”

“Then we’ll ask to join them.”

“I’m not going to grovel to join some no-name guild and be subservient to some would-be infamous assassins!”

Sam looked up. “Is this really about your pride, or is it because of the distance?”

“Both!” She slammed down the dagger and the honing stone on the rug. “I was willing to move to a place like Banjali or Bellhaven or Anielle. Not to an entirely new continent—a place we hardly know anything about! That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“At least we’d be out of Adarlan’s empire.”

“I don’t give a damn about the empire!”

He sat back, propping himself on his hands. “Can’t you just admit that this is about Arobynn?”

“No. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Because if we sail for the southern continent, then he will never find us again—and I don’t think you’re quite ready to accept that.”

“My relationship with Arobynn is—”

“Is what? Over? Is that why you didn’t tell me that he came to visit yesterday?”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Sam went on. “While you were trailing Jayne today, he approached me in the street, and seemed surprised that you hadn’t said anything about his visit. He also told me to ask about what really happened before he found you half-dead on that riverbank when we were children.” Sam leaned forward, bracing a hand on the floor as he brought his face close to hers. “And you know what I told him?” His breath was hot on her mouth. “That I didn’t care. But he just kept trying to bait me, to make me not trust you. So after he walked away, I went right to the docks and found the first ship that would take us away from this damned continent. Away from him, because even though we’re out of the Guild, he will never leave us alone.”

She swallowed hard. “He said those things to you? About … about where I came from?”

Sam must have seen something like fear in her eyes, because he suddenly shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Celaena, when you’re good and ready to tell me the truth, you’ll do it. And no matter what it is, when that day comes, I’ll be honored that you trust me enough to do so. But until then, it’s not my business, and it’s not Arobynn’s business. It’s not anyone’s business but your own.”

Celaena leaned her forehead against his, and some of the tightness in his body—and hers—melted away. “What if moving to the southern continent is a mistake?”

“Then we’ll move somewhere else. We’ll keep moving until we find the place where we’re meant to be.”

She shut her eyes and took a steadying breath. “Will you laugh if I say that I’m scared?”

“No,” he said softly, “never.”

“Maybe I should try your little trick.” She took another breath. “My name is Celaena Sardothien, and I will not be afraid.”

He did laugh then, a tickle of breath on her mouth. “I think you have to say it with a bit more conviction than that.”

She opened her eyes and found him watching her, his face a mixture of pride and wonder and such open affection that she could see that far-off land where they’d find a home, see that future that awaited them, and that glimmer of hope that promised happiness she’d never considered or dared yearn for. And even though the southern continent was a drastic change in their plans … Sam was right. A new continent for a new beginning.

“I love you,” Sam said.

Celaena wrapped her arms around him and held him close, breathing in his scent. Her only reply was, “I hate packing.”