The Assassin's Blade by Sarah J. Maas

With her new suit, it was far easier to keep track of her weapons, and she slid a long dagger out of the hidden flap in her boot. She peered down the second floor hallway.

The wooden doors were all shut. No guards, no servants, no members of Doneval’s household. She eased a foot onto the wooden floorboards. Where the hell were the guards?

Swift and quiet as a cat, she was at the door to Doneval’s study. No light shone from beneath the door. She saw no shadows of feet, and heard no sound.

The door was locked. A minor inconvenience. She sheathed her dagger and pulled out two narrow bits of metal, wedging and jamming them into the lock until—click.

Then she was inside, door locked again, and she stared into the inky black of the interior. Frowning, Celaena fished the pocket watch out of her suit. She lit a match.

She still had enough time to look around.

Celaena flicked out the match and rushed to the curtains, shutting them tight against the night outside. Rain still plinked faintly against the covered windows. She moved to the massive oak desk in the center of the room and lit the oil lamp atop it, dimming it until only a faint blue flame gave off a flicker of light. She shuffled through the papers on the desk. Newspapers, casual letters, receipts, the household expenses …

She opened every drawer in the desk. More of the same. Where were those documents?

Swallowing her violent curse, Celaena put a fist to her mouth. She turned in place. An armchair, an armoire, a hutch … She searched the hutch and armoire, but they had nothing. Just empty papers and ink. Her ears strained for any sound of approaching guards.

She scanned the books on the bookcase, tapping her fingers across the spines, trying to hear if any were hollowed out, trying to hear if—

A floorboard creaked beneath her feet. She was down on her knees in an instant, rapping on the dark, polished wood. She knocked all around the area, until she found a hollow sound.

Carefully, heart hammering, she dug her dagger between the floorboards and wedged it upward. Papers stared back at her.

She pulled them out, replaced the floorboard, and was back at the desk a moment later, spreading the papers before her. She’d only glance at them, just to be sure she had the right documents …

Her hands trembled as she flipped through the papers, one after another. Maps with red marks in random places, charts with numbers, and names—list after list of names and locations. Cities, towns, forests, mountains, all in Melisande.

These weren’t just Melisanders opposed to slavery—these were locations for planned safe houses to smuggle slaves to freedom. This was enough information to get all these people executed or enslaved themselves.

And Doneval, that wretched bastard, was going to use this information to force those people to support the slave trade—or be turned over to the king.

Celaena gathered up the documents. She’d never let Doneval get away with this. Never.

She took a step toward the trick floorboard. Then she heard the voices.





CHAPTER

11




She had the lamp off and the curtains opened in a heartbeat, swearing silently as she tucked the documents into her suit and hid in the armoire. It would only take a few moments before Doneval and his partner found that the documents were missing. But that was all she needed—she just had to get them in here, away from the guards, long enough to take them both down. The fire would start in the cellar any minute now, hopefully distracting many of the other guards, and hopefully happening before Doneval noticed the papers were gone. She left the armoire door open a crack, peering out.

The study door unlocked and then swung open.

“Brandy?” Doneval was saying to the cloaked and hooded man who trailed in behind him.

“No,” the man said, removing his hood. He was of average height and plain, his only notable features his sun-kissed face and high cheekbones. Who was he?

“Eager to get it over with?” Doneval chuckled, but there was a hitch to his voice.

“You could say that,” the man replied coolly. He looked about the room, and Celaena didn’t dare move—or breathe—as his blue eyes passed over the armoire. “My partners know to start looking for me in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll have you out in ten. I have to be at the theater tonight, anyway. There’s a young lady I’m particularly keen to see,” Doneval said with a businessman’s charm. “I take it that your associates are prepared to act quickly and give me a response by dawn?”

“They are. But show me your documents first. I need to see what you’re offering.”

“Of course, of course,” Doneval said, drinking from the glass of brandy that he’d poured for himself. Celaena’s hands became slick and her face turned sweaty under the mask. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?” When the man didn’t respond, Doneval said with a grin, “Either way, I hope you’ve stopped by Madam Clarisse’s establishment. I’ve never seen such fine girls in all my life.”

The man gave Doneval a distinctly displeased stare. Had Celaena not been here to kill them, she might have liked the stranger.

“Not one for chitchat?” Doneval teased, setting down the brandy and walking toward the floorboard. From the slight tremble in Doneval’s hands, she could tell that his talking was all nervous babble. How had such a man come into contact with such incredibly delicate and important information?