The Assassin's Blade by Sarah J. Maas

But there were others, and she counted three more—three more grunting and moaning as they crumpled around her—before someone grabbed her from behind. There was a vicious thump against her head, and something wet and putrid pressed to her face, and then—

Oblivion.



Celaena awoke, but she didn’t open her eyes. She kept her breathing steady, even as she inhaled the reek of filth and the damp, rotten air around her. And she kept her ears open, even as she heard the chuckle of male voices and the gurgle of water. She kept very still, even as she felt the ropes that bound her to the chair, and the water that was already up to her calves. She was in the sewer.

Splashes approached—heavy enough that the sewer water showered her lap.

“I think that’s enough sleeping,” said a deep voice. A powerful hand slapped her cheek. Through stinging eyes, she found the hatchet-hewn face of Doneval’s bodyguard smiling at her. “Hello, lovely. Thought we didn’t notice you spying on us for days, did you? You might be good, but you’re not invisible.”

Behind him, four guards loitered by an iron door—and beyond it was another door, through which she could see a set of steps that led upward. It must be a door into the cellar of the house. Several of the older houses in Rifthold had such doors: escape routes during wars, ways to sneak in scandal-worthy guests, or merely an easy way to deposit the household’s waste. The double doors were to keep out the water—airtight, and made long ago by skilled craftsmen who had used magic to coat the thresholds with water-repellent spells.

“There are a lot of rooms to break into in this house,” the bodyguard said. “Why’d you choose the upstairs study? And where’s your friend?”

She gave him a crooked grin, all the while taking in the cavernous sewer around her. The water was rising. She didn’t want to think about what was floating in it.

“Will this be an interrogation, then torture, then death?” she asked him. “Or am I getting the order wrong?”

The man grinned right back at her. “Smart-ass. I like it.” His accent was thick, but she understood him well enough. He braced his hands on either arm of her chair. With her own arms bound behind her back, she only had the freedom to move her face. “Who sent you?”

Her heart beat wildly, but her smile didn’t fade. Withstanding torture was a lesson she’d learned long ago. “Why do you assume anyone sent me? Can’t a girl be independent?”

The wooden chair groaned under his weight as he leaned so close their noses were almost touching. She tried not to inhale his hot breath. “Why else would a little bitch like you break into this house? I don’t think you’re after jewels or gold.”

She felt her nostrils flare. But she wouldn’t make her move—not until she knew she had no chance to glean information from him.

“If you’re going to torture me,” she drawled, “then get it started. I don’t particularly enjoy the smell down here.”

The man pulled back, his grin unfaltering. “Oh, we’re not going to torture you. Do you know how many spies and thieves and assassins have tried to take down Doneval? We’re beyond asking questions. If you don’t want to talk, then fine. Don’t talk. We’ve learned how to deal with you filth.”

“Philip,” one of the guards said, pointing with his sword down the dark tunnel of the sewer. “We’ve got to go.”

“Right,” Philip said, turning back to Celaena. “See, I figure if someone was foolish enough to send you here, then you must be expendable. And I don’t think anyone will look for you when they flood the sewers, not even your friend. In fact, most people are staying off the streets right now. You capital dwellers don’t like getting your feet dirty, do you?”

Her heart pounded harder, but she didn’t break his gaze. “Too bad they won’t get all the trash,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“No,” he said, “but they’ll get you. Or at least, the river will get your remains, if the rats have left enough.” Philip patted her cheek hard enough to sting. As if the sewers had heard him, a rush of water began sounding from the darkness.

Oh, no. No.

He splashed back to the landing where the guards stood. She watched them stride out through the second door, then up the stairs, then—

“Enjoy your swim,” Philip said, and slammed the iron door shut behind him.



Darkness and water. In the moments it took for her to adjust to the dim streetlight leaking in through the grate high, high above, water gushed against her legs. It was up to her lap in an instant.

She cursed violently and wriggled hard against the ropes. But as the ropes cut into her arms, she remembered: the built-in blades. It was a testament to the inventor’s skill that Philip hadn’t found them, even though he must have searched her. Yet the bindings were almost too tight for her to release them …

She twisted her wrists, fighting for any shred of space to flick her hand. The water pooled around her waist. They must have built the sewer dam at the other end of the city; it would take a few minutes before it completely flooded this part.

The rope wouldn’t budge, but she flicked her wrist, doing as the master tinkerer had told her, again and again. Then, at last, the whine and splash of the blade as it shot out. Pain danced down the side of her hand, and she swore. She’d cut herself on the damn thing. Thankfully, it didn’t feel deep.