The Assassin and the Desert (6 page)

“I've got sand in every crevice of my body,” Celaena muttered, squirming as she felt it grind against her skin. How in hell had sand gotten inside her clothes? Her white tunic and pants were layered enough that
she
couldn't even find her skin beneath.

“Are you
sure
you're Celaena Sardothien? Because I don't think she'd actually be this fussy. I bet she's used to roughing it.”

“I'm plenty used to roughing it,” Celaena said into the darkness, her words sucked into the dunes rising around them. “That doesn't mean I have to
enjoy
it. I suppose that someone from the Western Wastes would find this luxurious.”

Ansel chuckled. “You have no idea.”

Celaena quit her taunting as curiosity seized her. “Are your lands as cursed as they claim?”

“Well, the Flatlands used to be part of the Witch Kingdom. And yes, I suppose you could say they're somewhat cursed.” Ansel sighed loudly. “When the Crochan Queens ruled five hundred years ago, it was very beautiful. At least, the ruins all over the place seem like they would have been beautiful. But then the three Ironteeth Clans destroyed it all when they overthrew the Crochan Dynasty.”

“Ironteeth?”

Ansel let out a low hiss. “Some witches, like the Crochans, were gifted with ethereal beauty. But the Ironteeth Clans have iron teeth, sharp as a fish's. Actually, their iron fingernails are more dangerous; those can gut you in one swipe.”

A chill went down Celaena's spine.

“But when the Ironteeth Clans destroyed the kingdom, they say the last Crochan Queen cast a spell that turned the land against any that flew under the banners of the Ironteeth—so that no crops would grow, the animals withered up and died, and the waters turned muddy. It's not like that now, though. The land has been fertile ever since the Ironteeth Clans journeyed east . . . toward your lands.”

“So . . . so have
you
ever seen one of the witches?”

Ansel was quiet for a moment before she said, “Yes.”

Celaena turned toward her, propping a head on her hand. Ansel remained looking at the sky.

“When I was eight and my sister was eleven, she and I and Maddy, one of her friends, snuck out of Briarcliff Hall. A few miles away, there was a giant tor with a lone watchtower on top. The upper bits were all ruined because of the witch-wars, but the rest of it was still intact. See, there was this archway that went through the bottom of the watchtower—so you could see through it to the other side of the hill. And one of the stable boys told my sister that if you looked through the archway on the night of the summer solstice, then you might see into another world.”

The hair on Celaena's neck stood. “So you went inside?”

“No,” Ansel said. “I got near the top of the tor and became so terrified that I wouldn't set foot on it. I hid behind a rock, and my sister and Maddy left me there while they went the rest of the way. I can't remember how long I waited, but then I heard screaming.

“My sister came running. She just grabbed my arm and we ran. It didn't come out at first, but when we got to my father's hall, she told them what had happened. They had gone under the archway of the tower and seen an open door leading to its interior. But an old woman with metal teeth was standing in the shadows, and she grabbed Maddy and dragged her into the stairwell.”

Celaena choked on a breath.

“Maddy began screaming, and my sister ran. And when she told my father and his men, they raced for the tor. They arrived at dawn, but there was no trace of Maddy, or the old woman.”

“Gone?” Celaena whispered.

“They found one thing,” Ansel said softly. “They climbed the tower, and on one of the landings, they found the bones of a child. White as ivory and picked clean.”

“Gods above,” Celaena said.

“After that, my father walloped us within an inch of our lives, and we were on kitchen duty for six months, but he knew my sister's guilt would be punishment enough. She never really lost that haunted gleam in her eyes.”

Celaena shuddered. “Well, now I certainly won't be able to sleep tonight.”

Ansel laughed. “Don't worry,” she said, nestling down on her cloak. “I'll tell you a valuable secret: the only way to kill a witch is to cut off her head. Besides, I don't think an Ironteeth witch stands much of a chance against us.”

“I hope you're right,” Celaena muttered.

“I am right,” Ansel said. “They might be vicious, but they're not invincible. And if I had an army of my own . . . if I had even twenty of the Silent Assassins at my command, I'd hunt down all the witches. They wouldn't stand a chance.” Her hand thumped against the sand; she must have struck the ground. “You know, these assassins have been here for ages, but what do they
do
? The Flatlands would
prosper
if they had an army of assassins to defend them. But no, they just sit in their oasis, silent and thoughtful, and whore themselves out to foreign courts. If
I
were the Master, I'd use our numbers for greatness—for glory. We'd defend every unprotected realm out there.”

“So noble of you,” Celaena said. “Ansel of Briarcliff, Defender of the Realm.”

Ansel only laughed, and soon was asleep.

Celaena, though, stayed awake a while longer, unable to stop imagining what that witch had done when she dragged Maddy into the shadows of the tower.

It was Market Day in Xandria, and though the city had long suffered from Adarlan's embargo, it still seemed that there were vendors from all the kingdoms on the continent—and beyond. They were crammed into every possible space in the small, walled port city. All around Celaena were spices and jewels and clothes and food, some sold right out of brightly painted wagons, others spread on blankets in shadowy alcoves. There was no sign that anyone knew anything about the ill-fated attack on the Silent Assassins the other night.

She kept close to Ansel as they walked along, the red-haired girl weaving through the crowd with a kind of casual grace that Celaena, despite herself, envied. No matter how many people shoved into Ansel, or stepped in her path, or cursed her for stepping in theirs, she didn't falter, and her boyish grin only grew. Many people stopped to stare at her red hair and matching eyes, but Ansel took it in her stride. Even without her armor, she was stunning. Celaena tried not to think about how few people bothered to notice
her
.

With the bodies and the heat, Celaena was oozing sweat by the time Ansel stopped near the edge of the souk. “I'm going to be a couple hours,” Ansel said, and waved a long, elegant hand to the sandstone palace hovering above the small city. “The old bore likes to talk and talk and talk. Why don't you do some shopping?”

Celaena straightened. “I'm not going with you?”

“Into Berick's palace? Of course not. It's the Master's business.”

Celaena felt her nostrils flare. Ansel clapped her on the shoulder. “Believe me, you'd much rather spend the next few hours in the souk than waiting in the stables with Berick's men leering at you. Unlike us”—Ansel flashed that grin—“they don't have access to baths whenever they please.”

Ansel kept glancing at the palace, still a few blocks away. Nervous that she'd be late? Or nervous that she was going to confront Berick on behalf of the Master? Ansel brushed the remnants of red sand from the layers of her white clothes. “I'll meet you at that fountain at three. Try not to get into
too
much trouble.”

And with that, Ansel vanished into the press of bodies, her red hair gleaming like a hot brand. Celaena contemplated trailing her. Even if she was an outsider, why let her accompany Ansel on the journey if she was just going to have to sit outside? What could be so important and secret that Ansel wouldn't allow her to partake in the meeting? Celaena took a step toward the palace, but passing people jostled her to and fro, and then a vendor began cooking something that smelled divine, and Celaena found herself following her nose instead.

She spent the two hours wandering from vendor to vendor. She cursed herself for not bringing more money with her. In Rifthold, she had a line of credit at all her favorite stores, and never had to bother carrying money, aside from small coppers and the occasional silver coin for tips and bribes. But here . . . well, the pouch of silver she'd brought felt rather light.

The souk wound through every street, great and small, down narrow stairways and onto half-buried alleys that had to have been there for a thousand years. Ancient doors opened onto small courtyards jammed with spice vendors or a hundred lanterns, glittering like stars in the shadowy interior. For such a remote city, Xandria was teeming with life.

She was standing under the striped awning of a vendor from the southern continent, debating if she had enough to buy the pair of curled-toe shoes before her
and
the lilac perfume she'd smelled at a wagon owned by white-haired maidens. The maidens claimed they were the priestesses of Lani, the goddess of dreams—and perfume, apparently.

Celaena ran a finger down the emerald silk thread embroidered on the delicate shoes, tracing the curve of the point as it swept upward and curled over the shoe itself. They'd certainly be eye-catching in Rifthold. And no one else in the capital would have them. Though, in the filthy city streets, these would easily get ruined.

She reluctantly put the shoes down, and the vendor raised his brows. She shook her head, a rueful smile on her face. The man held up seven fingers—one less than the original asking price, and she chewed on her lip, signing back, “Six coppers?”

The man spat on the ground. Seven coppers. Seven coppers was laughably cheap.

She looked at the souk around her, then back at the beautiful shoes. “I'll come back later,” she lied, and with one final, mournful glance, she continued along. The man began shouting after her in a language she'd never heard before, undoubtedly offering the shoes for six coppers, but she forced herself to keep walking. Besides, her pack was heavy enough; lugging the shoes around would just be an additional burden. Even if they were lovely and different and not
that
heavy. And the thread detailing along the sides was as precise and beautiful as calligraphy. And really, she could just wear them
inside
, so she—

She was about to turn around and walk right back to the vendor when something glistening in the shadows beneath an archway between buildings caught her eye. There were a few hired guards standing around the covered wagon, and a tall, lean man stood behind the table displayed in front of it. But it wasn't the guards or the man or his wagon that grabbed her attention.

No, it was what was
on
his table that knocked the breath from her and made her curse her too-light money purse.

Spidersilk.

There were legends about the horse-sized stygian spiders that lurked in the woods of the Ruhnn Mountains of the north, spinning their thread for hefty costs. Some said they offered it in exchange for human flesh; others claimed the spiders dealt in years and dreams, and could take either as payment. Regardless, the thread was as delicate as gossamer, lovelier than silk, and stronger than steel. And she'd never seen so much of it before.

It was so rare that if you wanted it, odds were you had to go and get it for yourself. But here it was, yards of raw material waiting to be shaped. It was a kingdom's ransom.

“You know,” the merchant said in the common tongue, taking in Celaena's wide-eyed stare, “you're the first person today to recognize it for what it is.”

“I'd know what that is even if I were blind.” She approached the table, but didn't dare to touch the sheets of iridescent fabric. “But what are you doing here? Surely you can't get much business in Xandria.”

The man chuckled. He was middle-aged, with close-cropped brown hair and midnight-blue eyes that seemed haunted, though they now sparkled with amusement. “I might also ask what a girl from the North is doing in Xandria.” His gaze flicked to the daggers tucked into the brown belt slung across her white clothes. “And with such beautiful weapons.”

She gave him a half smile. “At least your eye is worthy of your wares.”

“I try.” He sketched a bow, then beckoned her closer. “So, tell me, girl from the North, when have you seen Spidersilk?”

She clenched her fingers into fists to keep from touching the priceless material. “I know a courtesan in Rifthold whose madam had a handkerchief made from it—given to her by an extraordinarily wealthy client.”

And that handkerchief had probably cost more than most peasants made in a lifetime.

“That was a kingly gift. She must have been skilled.”

“She didn't become madam of the finest courtesans in Rifthold for nothing.”

The merchant let out a low laugh. “So if you associate with the finest courtesans in Rifthold, then what brings you to this bit of desert scrub?”

She shrugged. “This and that.” In the dim light beneath the canopy, the Spidersilk still glittered like the surface of the sea. “But I would like to know how
you
came across so much of this. Did you buy it, or find the stygian spiders on your own?”

He traced a finger down the plane of fabric. “I went there myself. What else is there to know?” His midnight eyes darkened. “In the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains, everything is a labyrinth of mist and trees and shadows. So you don't find the stygian spiders—they find you.”

Celaena stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep from touching the Spidersilk. Though her fingers were clean, there were still grains of red sand under her nails. “So why are you here, then?”

“My ship to the southern continent doesn't leave for two days; why not set up shop? Xandria might not be Rifthold, but you never know who might approach your stall.” He winked at her. “How old are you, anyway?”