To her right, Sam rowed as quietly as he could to the Loveless, where the slaves from yesterday were being held. Silence was their only hope and ally, though the town behind them was already in the midst of revelry. It hadn’t taken long for word to get out that Arobynn Hamel’s assassins had opened a celebratory tab at the tavern, and even as they had strode to the docks, pirates were already streaming the other way toward the inn.
Panting through her mask, Celaena’s arms ached with each stroke. It wasn’t the town she was worried about, but the solitary watchtower to her left. A fire burned in its jagged turret, faintly illuminating the catapults and the ancient chain across the narrow bay mouth. If they were to be caught, the first alarm would be sounded from there.
It might have been easier to escape now—take down the watch-tower, overpower the slave ships, and set sail—but the chain was only the first in a line of defenses. The Dead Islands were nearly impossible to navigate at night, and at low tide … They’d get a few miles and run aground on a reef or a sandbank.
Celaena drifted the last few feet to the Golden Wolf and grasped the rung of a wooden ladder to keep the boat from thudding too hard against the hull.
They were better off at first light tomorrow, when the pirates would be too drunk or unconscious to notice, and when they had high tide on their side.
Sam flashed a compact mirror, indicating he’d made it to the Loveless. Catching the light in her own mirror, she signaled him back, then flashed twice, indicating that she was ready.
A moment later, Sam returned the same signal. Celaena took a long, steadying breath.
It was time.
CHAPTER
7
Nimble as a cat and smooth as a snake, Celaena climbed the wooden ladder built into the side of the ship.
The first guard didn’t notice she was upon him until her hands were around his neck, striking the two points that sent him into unconsciousness. He slumped to the deck, and she caught him by his filthy tunic, softening his fall. Quiet as mice, quiet as the wind, quiet as the grave.
The second guard, stationed at the helm, saw her coming up the staircase. He managed to emit a muffled cry before the pommel of her dagger slammed into his forehead. Not as neat, and not as quiet: he hit the deck with a thud that made the third guard, stationed at the prow, whirl to see.
But it was shadowy, and there were yards of ship between them. Celaena crouched low to the deck, covering the fallen guard’s body with her cloak.
“Jon?” the third guard called across the deck. Celaena winced at the sound. Not too far away, the Loveless was silent.
Celaena grimaced at the reek from Jon’s unwashed body.
“Jon?” the guard said, and thumping steps followed. Closer and closer. He’d see the first guard soon.
Three … two … one …
“What in hell?” The guard tripped over the first guard’s prostrate body.
Celaena moved.
She swung over the railing fast enough that the guard didn’t look up until she’d landed behind him. All it took was a swift blow to the head and she was easing his body down atop the first guard’s. Her heart hammering through every inch of her, she sprinted to the prow of the ship. She flashed the mirror three times. Three guards down.
Nothing.
“Come on, Sam.” She signaled again.
Far too many heartbeats later, a signal greeted her. The air rushed from her lungs in a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The guards on the Loveless were unconscious, too.
She signaled once. The watchtower was still quiet. If the guards were up there, they hadn’t seen anything. She had to be quick, had to get this done before her disappearance was noticed.
The guard outside the captain’s quarters managed to kick the wall hard enough to wake the dead before she knocked him out, but it didn’t stop Captain Fairview from squealing when she slipped into his office and shut the door.
When Fairview was secured in the brig, gagged and bound and fully aware that his cooperation and the cooperation of his guards meant his life, she crept down to the cargo area.
The passages were cramped, but the two guards at the door still didn’t notice her until she took the liberty of rendering them unconscious.
Silently as she could, she grabbed a lantern hanging from a peg on the wall and opened the door. The reek almost brought her to her knees.
The ceiling was so low she almost grazed it with her head. The slaves had all been chained, sitting, to the floor. No latrines, no source of light, no food or water.
The slaves murmured, squinting against the sudden brightness of the torchlight leaking in from the hallway.
Celaena took the ring of keys she’d stolen from the captain’s quarters and stepped into the cargo chamber. “Where is Dia?” she asked. They said nothing, either because they didn’t understand, or out of solidarity.
Celaena sighed, stepping farther into the chamber, and some of the wild-eyed mountain men murmured to one another. While they might have only recently declared themselves Adarlan’s enemies, the people of the White Fang Mountains had long been known for their unyielding love of violence. If she were to meet with any trouble in here, it would be from them. “Where is Dia?” she asked more loudly.
A trembling voice came from the back of the cargo area. “Here.” Her eyes strained to spy his narrow, fine features. “I’m here.”
She strode carefully through the crowded darkness. They were so close together that there was no room to move, and hardly any air to breathe. No wonder seven had died on the voyage here.
She took out Captain Fairview’s key and freed the shackles at Dia’s feet, then his manacles, before offering him a hand up. “You’re going to translate for me.” The mountain folk and whoever else didn’t speak either the common tongue or Eyllwe could figure out enough on their own.
Dia rubbed his wrists, which were bleeding and scabbed in places. “Who are you?”
Celaena unlocked the chains of the too-thin woman beside Dia, then held out the keys in her direction. “A friend,” she said. “Tell her to unlock everyone, but tell them not to leave this room.”
Dia nodded, and spoke in Eyllwe. The woman, mouth slightly open, looked at Celaena, then took the keys. Without a word, she set about freeing her companions. Dia then addressed the entire cargo bay, his voice soft but fierce.
“The guards are unconscious,” she said. Dia translated. “The captain has been locked in the brig, and tomorrow, should you choose to act, he will guide you through the Dead Islands and to safety. He knows that the penalty for bad information is death.”
Dia translated, his eyes growing wider and wider. Somewhere near the back, one of the mountain men began translating. And then two others translated, too—one in the language of Melisande, and another in a language she didn’t recognize. Had it been clever or cowardly of them not to speak up last night when she asked who spoke the common tongue?
“When I am done explaining our plan of action,” she said, her hands shaking a bit as she suddenly recalled what, exactly, lay before them, “you may leave this room, but do not set foot on the decks. There are guards in the watchtower, and guards monitoring this ship from land. If they see you on the deck, they will warn everyone.”
She let Dia and the others finish before going on.