Crown Of Midnight Part 2

The young man didn't seem like a threat, though she knew better than to underestimate anyone in a court like this. He wore only a dagger at his waist, and his pale face seemed rather jovial, despite the winter morning chill.

She found Dorian watching her with a half smile, an amused gleam in his eye that made her want to slap him. The prince then glanced at Chaol and chuckled. "And here I was, thinking that all the ladies were out so early for Roland and me. When all of them catch a vicious cold, I'll let their fathers know that you're to blame."

Chaol's cheeks colored ever so slightly. So he wasn't as ignorant of their morning audience as he'd led her to believe. "Lord Roland," he said tightly to Dorian's friend, and bowed.

The blond young man bowed back to Chaol. "Captain Westfall." His voice was pleasant enough, but something in it made her pause. It wasn't amus.e.m.e.nt or arrogance or anger ... She couldn't put her finger on it.

"Allow me to introduce my cousin," Dorian said to her, clapping Roland on the shoulder. "Lord Roland Havilliard of Meah." He extended a hand to Celaena. "Roland, this is Lillian. She works for my father."

They still used her alias whenever she couldn't avoid running into members of the court, though most everyone knew to some degree that she was not in the palace for administrative nonsense or politics.

"My pleasure," Roland said, bowing at the waist. "Are you newly arrived to court? I don't think I've seen you in years past."

Just the way he spoke told her enough about his history with women. "I arrived this autumn," she said a bit too quietly.

Roland gave her a courtier's smile. "And what sort of work do you do for my uncle?"

Dorian s.h.i.+fted on his feet and Chaol went very still, but Celaena returned Roland's smile and said, "I bury the king's opponents where n.o.body will ever find them."

Roland, to her surprise, actually chuckled. She didn't dare look at Chaol, whom she was certain would give her a tongue-las.h.i.+ng for it later. "I'd heard about the King's Champion. I didn't think it would be someone so ... lovely."

"What brings you to the castle, Roland?" the captain demanded. When Chaol looked at her like that, she usually found herself running in the other direction.

Roland smiled again. He smiled too much-and too smoothly. "His Majesty has offered me a position on his council." Chaol's eyes snapped to Dorian, who gave a shrug of confirmation. "I arrived last night, and I'm to start today."

Chaol smiled-if you could call it that. It was more a flash of teeth. Yes, she'd most definitely be running if Chaol looked at her like that.

Dorian understood the look, too, and gave a deliberate chuckle. But before the prince could speak, Roland studied Celaena further, a tad too intently. "Perhaps you and I shall get to work with each other, Lillian. Your position intrigues me."

She wouldn't mind working with him-but not in the way Roland meant. Her way would include a dagger, a shovel, and an unmarked grave.

As if he could read her thoughts, Chaol put a guiding hand on her back. "We're late for breakfast," he said, bowing his head to Dorian and Roland. "Congratulations on your appointment." He sounded like he'd swallowed rancid milk.

As she let Chaol lead her inside the castle, she realized she was in desperate need of a bath. But it had nothing to do with her sweaty clothes, and everything to do with the oily grin and roaming eyes of Roland Havilliard.

Dorian watched Celaena and Chaol disappear behind the hedges, the captain's hand still on the middle of her back. She did nothing to shake it off.

"An unexpected choice for your father to make, even with that compet.i.tion," Roland mused beside him.

Dorian checked his irritation before replying. He'd never particularly liked his cousin, whom he'd seen at least twice a year while growing up.

Chaol positively hated Roland, and whenever he came up in conversation, it was usually accompanied by phrases like "conniving wretch" and "sniveling, spoiled a.s.s." At least, that's what Chaol had been roaring three years ago, after the captain had punched Roland so hard in the face that the youth blacked out.

But Roland had deserved it. Deserved it enough that it hadn't interfered with Chaol's sterling reputation and later appointment to Captain of the Guard. If anything, it had improved Chaol's standing among the other guards and lesser n.o.bles.

If Dorian worked up the nerve, he'd ask his father what he'd been thinking when he appointed Roland to the council. Meah was a small yet prosperous coastal city in Adarlan, but it held no real political power. It didn't even have a standing army, save for the city's sentries. Roland was his father's cousin's son; perhaps the king felt that they needed more Havilliard blood in the council room. Still-Roland was untried, and had always seemed more interested in girls than politics.

"Where did your father's Champion come from?" Roland asked, drawing Dorian's attention back to the present.

Dorian turned toward the castle, heading for a different entrance than the one Chaol and Celaena had used. He still remembered the way they'd looked when he'd walked in on them embracing in her rooms after the duel, two months ago.

"Lillian's story is hers to tell," Dorian lied. He just didn't feel like explaining the compet.i.tion to his cousin. It was bad enough that his father had ordered him to take Roland on a walk this morning. The only bright spot had been seeing Celaena so obviously contemplate ways to bury the young lord.

"Is she for your father's personal use, or do the other councilmen also employ her?"

"You've been here for less than a day, and you already have enemies to dispatch, cousin?"

"We're Havilliards, cousin. We'll always have enemies that need dispatching."

Dorian frowned. It was true, though. "Her contract is exclusively with my father. But if you feel threatened, then I can have Captain Westfall a.s.sign a-"

"Oh, of course not. I was merely curious."

Roland was a pain in the a.s.s, and too aware of the effect his looks and his Havilliard name had on women, but he was harmless. Wasn't he?

Dorian didn't know the answer-and he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

Her salary as King's Champion was considerable, and Celaena spent every last copper of it. Shoes, hats, tunics, dresses, jewelry, weapons, baubles for her hair, and books. Books and books and books. So many books that Philippa had to bring up another bookcase for her room.

When Celaena returned to her rooms that afternoon, lugging hat boxes, colorful bags full of perfume and sweets, and brown paper parcels with the books she absolutely had to read immediately, she nearly dropped it all at the sight of Dorian Havilliard sitting in her foyer.

"G.o.ds above," he said, taking in all of her purchases.

He didn't know the half of it. This was just what she could carry. More had been ordered, and more would be delivered soon.

"Well," he said as she dumped the bags on the table, nearly toppling into a heap of tissue paper and ribbons, "at least you're not wearing that dreadful black today."

She shot him a glare over her shoulder as she straightened. Today she was wearing a lilac and ivory gown-a little bright for the end of winter, but worn in the hope that spring would soon come. Plus, dressing nicely guaranteed her the best service in whatever stores she visited. To her surprise, many of the shopkeepers remembered her from years ago-and had bought her lie about a long journey to the southern continent.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure?" She untied her white fur cloak-another gift to herself-and tossed it onto one of the chairs around the foyer table. "Didn't I already see you this morning in the garden?"

Dorian remained seated, that familiar, boyish grin on his face. "Aren't friends allowed to visit each other more than once a day?"

She stared down at him. Being friends with Dorian wasn't something she was certain she could actually do. Not when he would always have that gleam in his sapphire eyes-and not when he was the son of the man who gripped her fate in his hands. But in the two months since she'd ended whatever had been between them, she'd often found herself missing him. Not the kissing and flirting, but just him.

"What do you want, Dorian?"

A glimmer of ire flashed across his face, and he stood. She had to tip her head back to look at him. "You said you still wanted to be friends with me." His voice was low.

She closed her eyes for a moment. "I meant it."

"So be my friend," he said, his tone lifting. "Dine with me, play billiards with me. Tell me what books you're reading-or buying," he added with a wink in the direction of her parcels.

"Oh?" she asked, forcing herself to give him a half smile. "And you have so much time on your hands these days that you can spend hours with me again?"

"Well, I have my usual flock of ladies to attend to, but I can always make time for you."

She batted her eyelashes at him. "I'm truly honored." Actually, the thought of Dorian with other women made her want to shatter a window, but it wouldn't be fair to let him know that. She glanced at the clock on the small table beside a wall. "I actually need to go back into Rifthold right now," she said. It wasn't a lie. She still had a few hours of daylight left-enough time to survey Archer's elegant townhouse and start trailing him to get a sense of his usual whereabouts.

Dorian nodded, his smile fading.

Silence fell, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock on the table. She crossed her arms, remembering how he'd smelled, how his lips had tasted. But this distance between them, this horrible gap that spread every day ... it was for the best.

Dorian took a step closer, exposing his palms to her. "Do you want me to fight for you? Is that it?"

"No," she said quietly. "I just want you to leave me alone."

His eyes flickered with the words left unsaid. Celaena stared at him, unmoving, until he silently left.

Alone in the foyer, Celaena clenched and unclenched her fists, suddenly disgusted with all of the pretty packages on the table.

Chapter 5.

On a rooftop in a very fas.h.i.+onable 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 embarra.s.sment, 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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s castle, but to the a.s.sa.s.sins' 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 cus.h.i.+oned 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 gla.s.s pen flickered with firelight as he scanned through doc.u.ments and signed things and scribbled notes. Giving a little sigh through her nose, Celaena lowered the paper in her hands.

Unlike her s.p.a.cious 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 s.p.a.cious 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.sageways 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 cus.h.i.+on. 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."

She swung her legs off the arm of the couch and sat up straight. "Testy, aren't you?"

She picked up another one of her doc.u.ments, a map of the city that she'd marked up with the locations of Archer's clients. Most of them seemed to be in the posh district where the majority of Rifthold's elite lived. Archer's own townhouse was in that neighborhood, tucked into a quiet, respectable side street. She traced a nail along it, but paused when her eyes fell upon a street just a few blocks over.

She knew that street-and knew the house that sat on its corner. Whenever she ventured into Rifthold, she took care to never pa.s.s too close to it. Today had been no different; she'd even gone a few blocks out of her way to avoid walking by.

Not daring to look at Chaol, she asked, "Do you know who Rourke Farran is?"