The Assassin and the Pirate Lord

Celaena walked to the wooden desk and picked up a piece of paper, her black-gloved hands turning it over to read the contents. A weather log. How dull.



“What are you doing?”



Celaena lifted another piece of paper. “If His Pirateness can’t be bothered to clean for us, then I don’t see why I can’t have a look.”



“He’ll be here any second,” Sam hissed. She picked up a flattened map, examining the dots and markings along the coastline of their continent. Something small and round gleamed beneath the map, and she slipped it into her pocket before Sam could notice.



“Oh, hush,” she said, opening the hutch on the wall adjacent to the desk. “With these creaky floors, we’ll hear him a mile off.” The hutch was crammed with rolled scrolls, quills, the odd coin, and some very old, very expensive-looking brandy. She pulled out a bottle, swirling the amber liquid in the sunlight streaming through the tiny porthole window. “Care for a drink?”



“No,” Sam snapped, half twisting in his seat to watch the door. “Put it back. Now.”



She cocked her head, twirling the brandy once more in its crystal bottle, and set it down. Sam sighed. Beneath her mask, Celaena grinned.



“He can’t be a very good lord,” she said, “if this is his personal office.” Sam gave a stifled cry of dismay as Celaena plopped into the giant armchair behind the desk and set about opening the pirate’s ledgers and turning over his papers. His handwriting was cramped and near-illegible, his signature nothing more than a few loops and jagged peaks.



She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly. Her brows rose a bit at the sight of a piece of purple, perfumed paper, signed by someone named “Jacqueline.” She leaned back in the chair, propping her feet on the desk, and read it.



“Damn it, Celaena!”



She raised her brows, but realized he couldn’t see. The mask and clothes were a necessary precaution, one that made it far easier to protect her identity. In fact, all of Arobynn’s assassins had been sworn to secrecy about who she was—under the threat of endless torture and eventual death.



Celaena huffed, though her breath only made the interior of the insufferable mask hotter. All that the world knew about Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s Assassin, was that she was female. And she wanted to keep it that way. How else would she be able to stroll the broad avenues of Rifthold or infiltrate grand parties by posing as foreign nobility? And while she wished that Rolfe could have the chance to admire her lovely face, she had to admit that the disguise also made her rather imposing, especially when the mask warped her voice into a growling rasp.



“Get back in your seat.” Sam reached for a sword that wasn’t there. The guards at the entrance to the inn had taken their weapons. Of course, none of them had realized that Sam and Celaena were weapons themselves. They could kill Rolfe just as easily with their bare hands as they could with a blade.



“Or you’ll fight me?” She tossed the love letter onto the desk. “Somehow, I don’t think that’d make a favorable impression on our new acquaintances.” She crossed her arms behind her head, gazing at the turquoise sea visible between the dilapidated buildings that made up Skull’s Bay.



Sam half rose from his chair. “Just get back in your seat.”



She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see. “I’ve just spent ten days at sea. Why should I sit in that uncomfortable chair when this one’s far more suited to my tastes?”



Sam let out a growl. Before he could speak, the door opened.



Sam froze, but Celaena only inclined her head in greeting as Captain Rolfe, Lord of the Pirates, entered his office.



“I’m glad to see you’ve made yourself at home.” The tall, dark-haired man shut the door behind him. Bold move, considering who sat in his office.



Celaena remained where she sat. Well, he certainly wasn’t what she’d expected. It wasn’t every day that she was surprised, but … she’d imagined him to be a bit dirtier—and far more flamboyant. Considering the tales she’d heard of Rolfe’s wild adventures, she had trouble believing that this man—lean but not wiry, well dressed but not overtly so, and probably in his late twenties—was the legendary pirate. Perhaps he, too, kept his identity a secret from his enemies.



Sam stood, bowing his head slightly. “Sam Cortland,” he said by way of greeting.



Rolfe extended a hand, and Celaena watched his tattooed palm and fingers as they clasped Sam’s broad hand. The map—that was the mythic map that he’d sold his soul to have inked on his hands. The map of the world’s oceans—the map that changed to show storms, foes … and treasure.



“I suppose you don’t need an introduction.” Rolfe turned to her.



“No.” Celaena leaned back farther in his desk chair. “I suppose I don’t.”



Rolfe chuckled, a crooked smile spreading across his tanned face. He stepped to the hutch, giving her the chance to examine him further. Broad shoulders, head held high, a casual grace to his movements that came with knowing he had all the power here. He didn’t have a sword, either. Another bold move. Wise, too, given that they could easily use his weapons against him. “Brandy?” he asked.



“No, thank you,” Sam said. Celaena felt Sam’s eyes hard upon her, willing her to take her feet off of Rolfe’s desk.



“With that mask on,” Rolfe mused, “I don’t think you could have a drink, anyway.” He poured brandy for himself and took a long sip. “You must be boiling in all that clothing.”



Celaena lowered her feet to the ground as she ran her hands along the curved edge of his desk, stretching out her arms. “I’m used to it.”



Rolfe drank again, watching her for a heartbeat over the rim of his glass. His eyes were a striking shade of sea green, as bright as the water just a few blocks away. Lowering the glass, he approached the end of the desk. “I don’t know how you handle things in the North, but down here, we like to know who we’re speaking to.”



She cocked her head. “As you said, I don’t need an introduction. And as for the privilege of seeing my beautiful face, I’m afraid that’s something few men receive.”



Rolfe’s tattooed fingers tightened on the glass. “Get out of my chair.”



Across the room, Sam tensed. Celaena examined the contents of Rolfe’s desk again. She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You really need to work on organizing this mess.”



She sensed the pirate grabbing for her shoulder and was on her feet before his fingers could graze the black wool of her cloak. He stood a good head taller than her. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she crooned.



Rolfe’s eyes gleamed with the challenge. “You’re in my city, and on my island.” Only a hand’s breadth separated them. “You’re not in any position to give me orders.”



Sam cleared his throat, but Celaena stared up into Rolfe’s face. His eyes scanned the blackness beneath the hood of her cloak—the smooth black mask, the shadows that concealed any trace of her features. “Celaena,” Sam warned, clearing his throat again.



“Very well.” She sighed loudly, and stepped around Rolfe as if he were nothing but a piece of furniture in her way. She sank into the chair beside Sam, who flashed her a glare that burned enough to melt the entirety of the Frozen Wastes.



She could feel Rolfe watching their every movement, but he merely adjusted the lapels of his midnight-blue tunic before sitting down. Silence fell, interrupted only by the cry of gulls circling above the city and the shouting of pirates calling to one another in the filthy streets.



“Well?” Rolfe rested his forearms on the desk.



Sam glanced at her. Her move.



“You know precisely why we’re here,” Celaena said. “But perhaps all that brandy’s gone to your head. Shall I refresh your memory?”



Rolfe gestured with his green, blue, and black hand for her to continue, as if he were a king on his throne listening to the complaints of the rabble. Ass.



“Three assassins from our Guild were found dead in Bellhaven. The one that got away told us they were attacked by pirates.” She draped an arm along the back of her chair. “Your pirates.”



“And how did the survivor know they were my pirates?”



She shrugged. “Perhaps it was the tattoos that gave them away.” All Rolfe’s men had their wrists tattooed with an image of a multicolored hand.



Rolfe opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a piece of paper and reading the contents. He said, “Once I caught wind that Arobynn Hamel might blame me, I had the shipyard master of Bellhaven send me these records. It seems the incident occurred at three in the morning at the docks.”



This time Sam answered. “That’s correct.”



Rolfe set down the paper and lifted his eyes skyward. “So if it was three in the morning, and it took place at the docks—which have no street lamps, as I’m sure you know”—she didn’t—“then how did your assassin see all of their tattoos?”



Beneath her mask, Celaena scowled. “Because it happened three weeks ago—during the full moon.”



“Ah. But it’s early spring. Even up in Bellhaven, nights are still cold. Unless my men were without coats, there was no way for—”



“Enough,” Celaena snapped. “I suppose that piece of paper has ten different paltry excuses for your men.” She grabbed the satchel from the floor and yanked out the two sealed documents. “These are for you.” She tossed them on the desk. “From our master.”



A smile tugged on Rolfe’s lips, but he pulled the documents to him, studying the seal. He held it up to the sunlight. “I’m surprised it hasn’t been tampered with.” His eyes glimmered with mischief. Celaena could sense Sam’s smugness oozing out of him.



With two deft flicks of his wrist, Rolfe sliced open both envelopes with a letter-knife she somehow hadn’t spotted. How had she missed it? A fool’s mistake.



In the silent minutes that passed as Rolfe read the letters, his only reaction was the occasional drumming of his fingers on the wooden desk. The heat was suffocating, and sweat slipped down her back. They were supposed to be here for three days—long enough for Rolfe to gather the money he owed them. Which, judging by the growing frown on Rolfe’s face, was quite a lot.



Rolfe let out a long breath when he finished and shuffled the papers into alignment.



“Your master drives a hard bargain,” Rolfe said, looking from Celaena to Sam. “But his terms aren’t unfair. Perhaps you should have read the letter before you started flinging accusations at me and my men. There will be no retribution for those dead assassins. Whose deaths, your master agrees, were not my fault in the least. He must have some common sense, then.” Celaena quelled the urge to lean forward. If Arobynn wasn’t demanding payment for the death of those assassins, then what were they doing here? Her face burned. She’d just looked like a fool, hadn’t she? If Sam smiled just the slightest bit …



Rolfe drummed his inked fingers again and ran a hand through his shoulder-length dark hair. “As for the trade agreement he’s outlined … I’ll have my accountant draw up the necessary fees, but you’ll have to tell Arobynn that he can’t expect any profits until at least the second shipment. Possibly the third. And if he has an issue with that, then he can come down here himself to tell me.”



Profits? Shipment? For once, Celaena was grateful for the mask. It sounded like they’d been sent for some sort of business investment. She flicked her eyes to Sam, who nodded at Rolfe—as if he knew exactly what the Pirate Lord was talking about. “And when can we tell Arobynn to expect the first shipment?” he asked.



Rolfe stuffed Arobynn’s letters into a desk drawer and locked it. “The slaves will be here in two days—ready for your departure the day after. I’ll even loan you my ship, so you can tell that trembling crew of yours they’re free to return to Rifthold tonight, if it pleases them.”