Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“Not the grandest party we’ve ever been to,” he said, “but Davis has the best pastry chef in Rifthold.”

Indeed, throughout the room, tables were overflowing with the most beautiful, decadent-looking pastries she’d ever seen. Pastries stuffed with cream, cookies dusted with sugar, and chocolate, chocolate, chocolate beckoning to her everywhere. Perhaps she’d swipe a few before she left. It was an effort to return her gaze to Archer. “How long has he been your client?”

That wolfish smile flickered. “A few years now. Which is how I noticed the change in his behavior.” His voice dropped to a whisper, the words tickling her ear as he leaned in. “He’s more paranoid, eats less, and holes up in his office any chance he gets.”

At the other end of the domed ballroom, massive windows faced a patio overlooking a glittering stretch of the Avery. She could imagine those doors thrown wide in summer, and how lovely it would be to dance alongside the riverbank under the stars and city lights.

“I have about five minutes before I need to make my rounds,” Archer said, his eyes following Clarisse as she patrolled the room. “She’ll expect an auction for me on a night like this.” Celaena’s stomach turned over, and she found herself reaching for his hand. But he just gave her a bemused smile. “Just a few more weeks, right?” There was still enough bitterness that she squeezed his fingers reassuringly.

“Right,” she swore.

Archer jerked his chin toward a stocky, middle-aged man holding court with a group of well-dressed people. “That’s Davis,” he said under his breath. “I haven’t seen much during my visits, but I think he might be a key leader in this group.”

“You’re assuming that based on glimpsing some papers in the house?”

Archer slid his hands into his pockets. “One night about two months ago, I was here when three of his friends came over—all of them clients of mine, too. It was urgent, they said, and when Davis slipped out of the bedroom …”

She gave him a half smile. “You somehow accidentally overheard everything?”

Archer smiled back, but it faded as he again looked at Davis, who was pouring wine for the people assembled around him, including some young women who looked a year or two shy of sixteen. Celaena’s own smile vanished as well. This was a side of Rifthold that she hadn’t missed in the least.

“They spent more time ranting about the king than making plans. And regardless of what they might claim, I don’t think they truly care about Aelin Galathynius. I think they just want to find a ruler who best serves their interests—and maybe they only want her to raise an army so their businesses can thrive during the war that would ensue. If they aid her, give her badly needed supplies …”

“Then she’d owe them. They want a puppet queen, not a true ruler.” Of course—of course they would want something like that. “Are they even from Terrasen?”

“No. Davis’s family was, years ago, but he’s spent his whole life in Rifthold. If he claims loyalty to Terrasen, it’s only a half truth.”

She ground her teeth. “Self-serving bastards.”

Archer shrugged. “That may be true. But they’ve also rescued a good number of would-be victims from the king’s gallows, apparently. The night his friends burst into the house, it was because they’d managed to save one of their informants from being interrogated by the king. They smuggled him out of Rifthold before dawn broke the next day.”

Did Chaol know about this? Given how he’d reacted to killing Cain, she didn’t think torturing and hanging traitors were a part of his duties—or were even mentioned to him. Or Dorian, for that matter.

But if Chaol wasn’t in charge of interrogating possible traitors, then who was? Was this person the source who had given the king his latest list of traitors to the crown? Oh, there were too many things to consider, too many secrets and tangled webs.

Celaena asked, “Do you think you can get me into Davis’s office right now? I want to look around.”

Archer smirked. “My darling, why do you think I brought you over here?” He smoothly led her to a nearby side door—a servants’ entrance. No one noticed as they slipped through, and if they had, Archer’s hands roaming over her bodice, her arms, her shoulders, her neck, would suggest that they were going through the door for some privacy.

A seductive smile on his face, Archer tugged her down the small hallway, then up the stairs, always taking care to keep his hands moving on her lest anyone see them. But all the servants were preoccupied, and the upstairs hall was clear and quiet, its wood-paneled walls and red carpeting immaculate. The paintings here—several from artists she recognized—were worth a small fortune. Archer moved with a stealth that probably came from years of slipping in and out of bedrooms. He led her to a set of locked double doors.

Before she could pull one of Philippa’s pins from her hair to unlock it, a pick appeared in Archer’s hand. He gave her a conspirator’s grin. A heartbeat after that, the office door swung open, revealing a room lined with bookshelves over an ornate blue carpet, with potted ferns scattered throughout. A large desk sat in the center, two armchairs before it, and a chaise sprawled near a darkened fireplace. Celaena paused in the doorway, pressing on her bodice just to feel the slender dagger tucked inside. She brushed her legs together, checking the two daggers strapped to her thighs.