Chapter 5
On a rooftop in a very fashionable and respectable part of Rifthold, Celaena crouched in the shadow of a chimney and frowned into the chill wind gusting off the Avery. She checked her pocket watch for the third time. Archer Finn’s previous two appointments had only been an hour each. He’d been in the house across the street for almost two.
There was nothing interesting about the elegant, green-roofed townhouse, and she hadn’t learned anything about who lived there, other than the client’s name—some Lady Balanchine. She had used the same trick she’d employed at the other two houses to gain that bit of information: she pretended to be a courier with a package for Lord So-and-So. And when the butler or housekeeper said that this was not Lord So-and-So’s house, she’d feigned embarrassment, asked whose house it was, chatted up the servant a bit, and then went on her way.
Celaena adjusted the position of her legs and rolled her neck. The sun had nearly set, the temperature dropping with each passing minute. Unless she could get into the houses themselves, she wasn’t going to learn much else. And given the likelihood that Archer might actually be doing what he was paid to do, she was in no rush to go inside. Better to learn where he went, who he saw, and then take the next step.
It had been so long since she’d done something like this in Rifthold—since she’d crouched on the emerald rooftops and learned what she could about her prey. It was different than when the king had sent her off to Bellhaven or to some lord’s estate. Here, now, in Rifthold, it felt like …
It felt like she’d never left. As if she might look over her shoulder and find Sam Cortland crouching behind her. As if she might return at the end of the night not to the glass castle, but to the Assassins’ Keep on the other side of the city.
Celaena sighed, tucking her hands under her arms to keep her fingers warm and agile.
It had been over a year and a half since the night she’d lost her freedom; a year and a half since she’d lost Sam. And somewhere, in this city, were the answers to how it all had happened. If she dared to look, she knew she’d find them. And she knew it would destroy her again.
The front door of the townhouse opened, and Archer swaggered down the steps, right into his waiting carriage. She barely caught a glimpse of his golden-brown hair and fine clothes before he was whisked away.
Groaning, Celaena straightened from her crouch and hurried off the roof. Some harrowing climbing and a few jumps soon had her back on the cobbled streets.
She trailed Archer’s carriage, slipping in and out of shadows as they made their way across the city, a slow journey thanks to traffic. While she might be in no hurry to seek out the truth behind her own capture and Sam’s death, and while she was fairly certain the king had to be wrong about Archer, part of her wondered whether whatever truth she uncovered about this rebel movement and the king’s plans would destroy her, too.
And not just destroy her—but also everything she’d grown to care about.
Savoring the warmth of the crackling fire, Celaena leaned her head against the back of the small couch and dangled her legs over the cushioned arm. The lines on the paper she held before her were beginning to blur, which was no surprise, given that it was well past eleven, and she’d been up before dawn.
Sprawled on the well-worn red carpet in front of her, Chaol’s glass pen flickered with firelight as he scanned through documents and signed things and scribbled notes. Giving a little sigh through her nose, Celaena lowered the paper in her hands.
Unlike her spacious suite, Chaol’s bedroom was one large chamber, furnished only with a table by the solitary window and the old couch set before the stone fireplace. A few tapestries hung on the gray stone walls, a towering oak armoire stood in one corner, and his four-poster bed was decorated with a rather old and faded crimson duvet. There was a bathing room attached—not as large as her own, but still spacious enough to accommodate its own pool and privy. He had only one small bookcase, filled and neatly arranged. In alphabetical order, if she knew Chaol at all. And it probably contained only his most beloved books—unlike Celaena’s, which housed every title she got her hands on, whether she liked the book or not. Regardless of his unnaturally organized bookshelf, she liked it here; it was cozy.
She’d started coming here a few weeks ago, when thoughts of Elena and Cain and the secret passageways made her itch to get out of her own rooms. And even though he’d grumbled about her imposing on his privacy, Chaol hadn’t turned her away or objected to her frequent after-dinner visits.
The scratching of Chaol’s pen stopped. “Remind me again what you’re working on.”
She flopped onto her back as she waved the paper in the air above her. “Just information about Archer. Clients, favored haunts, his daily schedule.”
Chaol’s golden-brown eyes were molten in the firelight. “Why go to so much trouble to track him when you could just shoot him and be done with it? You said he was well-guarded, yet it seems like you tracked him easily today.”
She scowled. Chaol was too smart for his own good. “Because, if the king actually has a group of people conspiring against him, then I should get as much information about them as I can before I kill Archer. Perhaps following Archer will reveal more conspirators—or at least clues to their whereabouts.” It was the truth—and she’d followed Archer’s ornate carriage through the streets of the capital today for that very reason.
But in the hours she’d spent trailing him, he’d gone only to a few appointments before returning to his townhouse.
“Right,” Chaol said. “So you’re just … memorizing that information now?”
“If you’re suggesting that I have no reason to be here and should leave, then tell me to go.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s so boring that you dozed off ten minutes ago.”
She propped herself on her elbows. “I did not!”
His brows rose. “I heard you snoring.”
“You’re a liar, Chaol Westfall.” She threw her paper at him and plopped back on the couch. “I only closed my eyes for a minute.”
He shook his head again and went back to work.
Celaena blushed. “I didn’t really snore, did I?”
His face was utterly serious as he said, “Like a bear.”
She thumped a fist on the couch cushion. He grinned. She huffed, then draped her arm off the sofa, picking at the threads of the ancient rug as she stared up at the stone ceiling. “Tell me why you hate Roland.”
Chaol looked up. “I never said I hated him.”
She just waited.
Chaol sighed. “I think it’s fairly easy for you to see why I hate him.”
“But was there any incident that—”
“There were many incidents, and I don’t particularly feel like talking about any of them.”