He stared carefully, warily, at her. “I’ll need the rest of the month to untangle my money.” He loosed a breath, then rubbed his face with his hands. After a long moment, he said, “Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. I’ll get to be free of Clarisse and start my life anew elsewhere.” Though he gave her a wobbly smile, his eyes were still haunted. “Why did the king even suspect me?”
She hated herself for feeling such pity for him. “I don’t know. He just handed me a piece of paper with your name on it, and said you were a part of some movement to upset his plans—whatever those may be.”
Archer snorted. “I only wish I could be that sort of man.”
She studied him: the strong jaw, the broad frame, all suggested strength. But what she’d seen just now—that was not strength. Chaol had known right away what sort of man Archer was. Chaol had seen through the illusion of strength—and she hadn’t. Shame heated her cheeks, but she made herself speak again. “You truly think you can uncover information about this—this movement from Terrasen?” Even though the heir had to be an imposter, the movement itself was worth looking into. Elena had said to look for clues; she might find some here.
Archer nodded. “There’s a ball tomorrow night at a client’s house; I’ve heard him and his friends murmuring about the movement. If I sneak you into the party, it might give you a chance to look around his office. Maybe you’ll even find real traitors at the party—not just suspects.”
And some ideas about what the king might be up to. Oh, this information could be very useful.
“Send along the details to the castle tomorrow morning, care of Lillian Gordaina,” she told him. “But if this party turns out to be a load of nonsense, I’ll reconsider my offer. Don’t make me look the fool, Archer.”
“You’re Arobynn’s protégée,” he said quietly, opening the carriage door and keeping his distance as best he could while he exited. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good,” she said. “And Archer?” He paused, a hand on the carriage door. She leaned forward, letting a bit of that wicked darkness shine through her eyes. “If I find out that you aren’t being discreet—if you draw too much attention to yourself or attempt to flee—I will end you. Is that clear?”
He gave her a low bow. “I am your eternal servant, milady.” And then he gave her a smile that made her wonder whether she’d regret her decision to let him live. Leaning into the carriage bench, she thumped on the ceiling, and the driver headed to the castle. Though she was exhausted, she had one last thing to do before bed.
She knocked once, then opened the door to Chaol’s bedroom just wide enough to peer in. He was standing frozen before the fireplace, as if he’d been in the middle of pacing.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” she said, slipping inside. “It’s past twelve.”
He folded his arms across his chest, his captain’s uniform rumpled and unbuttoned at the collar. “Then why bother stopping by? I thought you weren’t coming home tonight, anyway.”
She pulled her cloak tighter around her, her fingers digging into the soft fur. She lifted her chin. “Turns out Archer wasn’t as dashing as I remembered. Funny how a year in Endovier can change the way you see people.”
His lips tugged upward, but his face remained solemn. “Did you get the information you wanted?”
“Yes, and then some,” she said. She explained what Archer had told her (pretending that he’d accidentally given her the information, of course). She explained the rumors surrounding the lost heir of Terrasen, but left out the bits about Aelin Galathynius seeking to reestablish her court and raise an army. And about Archer not really being in the movement. Oh, and about wanting to uncover the king’s true plans.
When she finished telling Chaol about the upcoming ball, he walked up to the mantel and braced his hands against it, staring at the tapestry hanging on the wall above. Though it was faded and worn, she instantly recognized the ancient city nestled into the side of a mountain above a silver lake: Anielle, Chaol’s home.
“When are you going to tell the king?” he asked, turning his head to look at her.
“Not until I know if this is actually real—or until I use Archer to get as much information as I can before I kill him.”
He nodded, pushing off the mantel. “Just be careful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Is there something wrong with saying it?”
“Yes, there is! I’m not some silly fool who can’t protect herself or use her head!”
“Did I ever imply that?”
“No, but you keep saying ‘be careful’ and telling me how you worry, and insisting you help me with things, and—”
“Because I do worry!”
“Well, you shouldn’t! I’m just as capable of looking after myself as you are!”
He took a step toward her, but she held her ground. “Believe me, Celaena,” he snarled, his eyes flashing, “I know you can look after yourself. But I worry because I care. Gods help me, I know I shouldn’t, but I do. So I will always tell you to be careful, because I will always care what happens.”
She blinked. “Oh,” was all she managed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, then took a long, deep breath.
Celaena gave him a sheepish smile.
Chapter 12
The masque was held in a riverfront estate along the Avery, and was so packed that Celaena had no trouble slipping in with Archer. Philippa had managed to find her a delicate white gown, made up of layers of chiffon and silk patterned like overlapping feathers. A matching mask obscured the upper half of her face, and ivory feathers and pearls had been woven into her hair.
It was fortunate it was a masquerade and not a normal party, since she certainly recognized a few faces in the crowd. They were mostly other courtesans she’d once known, along with Madame Clarisse. During the carriage ride here, Archer had promised that Arobynn Hamel wasn’t attending, and neither was Lysandra—a courtesan with whom Celaena had a long, violent history, and someone she was fairly certain she’d kill if she ever saw again. As it was, just seeing Clarisse floating through the party, arranging liaisons between her courtesans and the guests, was enough to set Celaena on edge.
While she had come as a swan, Archer had dressed as a wolf—his tunic pewter, his slender pants dove gray, and his boots shining black. His wolf mask covered all but his sensual lips, which were currently parted in a rather wolfish smile as he squeezed the hand she had on his arm.
“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.