The screams were still rising up from below when they left the Vaults.
She had intended to lead them home, but Sam insisted on going to the public park built along a well-off neighborhood beside the Avery River. After meandering along the neat gravel walkways, he slumped onto a bench facing the water. He pulled off his hood and rubbed his face with his broad hands.
“We’re not like that,” he whispered through his fingers.
Celaena sank onto the wooden bench. She knew exactly what he meant. The same thought had been echoing through her head as they walked here. They had been taught how to kill and maim and torture—she knew how to skin a man and keep him alive while doing it. She knew how to keep someone awake and coherent during long hours of torment—knew where to inflict the most pain without having someone bleed out.
Arobynn had been so, so clever about it, too. He’d brought in the most despicable people—rapists, murderers, rogue assassins who had butchered innocents—and he’d made her read all of the information he’d gathered on them. Made her read about all of the awful things they’d done until she was so enraged she couldn’t think straight, until she was aching to make them suffer. He’d honed her anger into a lethal blade. And she’d let him.
Before Skull’s Bay, she’d done it all and had rarely questioned it. She’d pretended that she had some moral code, lied to herself and said that since she didn’t enjoy it, it meant that she had some excuse, but … she had still stood in that chamber beneath the Assassins’ Keep and seen the blood flow toward the drain in the sloped floor.
“We can’t be like that,” Sam said.
She took his hands, easing them away from his face. “We’re not like Farran. We know how to do it, but we don’t enjoy it. That’s the difference.”
His brown eyes were distant as he watched the gentle current of the Avery making its way toward the nearby sea. “When Arobynn ordered us to do things like that, we never said no.”
“We had no choice. But we do now.” Once they left Rifthold, they’d never have to make a choice like that again—they could create their own codes.
Sam looked at her, his expression so haunted and bleak it made her sick. “But there was always that part. That part that did enjoy it when it was someone who truly deserved it.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, there was always that part. But we still had a line, Sam—we still stayed on the other side of it. Lines don’t exist for someone like Farran.”
They weren’t like Farran—Sam wasn’t like Farran. She knew that in her bones. Sam would never be like Farran. He’d never be like her, either. She sometimes wondered if he knew just how dark she could turn.
Sam leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder. “When we die, do you think we’ll be punished for the things we’ve done?”
She looked at the far bank of the river, where a row of ramshackle houses and docks had been built. “When we die,” she said, “I don’t think the gods will even know what to do with us.”
Sam glanced at her, a hint of amusement shining in his eyes.
Celaena smiled at him, and the world, for one flickering heartbeat, felt right.
The dagger whined as Celaena sharpened it, the reverberations shooting through her hands. Seated beside her on the floor of the great room, Sam pored over a map of the city, tracing streets with his fingers. The fireplace before them cast everything into flickering shadows, a welcome warmth on a chill night.
They had returned to the Vaults in time to see Farran entering his carriage again. So they spent the rest of the afternoon stalking him—more trips to the bank and other locations, more stops back at Jayne’s house. She’d gone off on her own for two hours to trail Jayne—to get another subtle glimpse at the house and see where the Crime Lord went. It was two uneventful hours of figuring out where his spies hid on the streets, since Jayne didn’t emerge from the building at all.
If Sam planned to dispatch Farran tomorrow night, they agreed that the best time to do it would be when he took a carriage from the house to wherever else he had dealings, either for himself or Jayne. After a long day of running errands for Jayne, Farran was sure to be drained, his defenses sloppy. He wouldn’t know what was coming until his lifeblood spilled.
Sam would be wearing the special suit that the Master Tinkerer from Melisande had made for him, which in itself was its own armory. The sleeves possessed concealed built-in swords, the boots were specially designed for climbing, and, thanks to Celaena, Sam’s suit was equipped with an impenetrable patch of Spidersilk right over his heart.
Celaena had her own suit, of course—used only sparingly now that the convoy from Melisande had returned home. If either suit needed repairs, it’d be near impossible to find someone in Rifthold skilled enough. But dispatching Farran was definitely an occasion worth the risk. In addition to the suit’s defenses, Sam would also be equipped with the extra blades and daggers that Celaena was now sharpening. She tested an edge against her hand, smiling grimly as her skin stung. “Sharp enough to cut air,” she said, sheathing it and setting it down beside her.
“Well,” Sam said, eyes still flitting across the map, “let’s hope I don’t have to get close enough to use it.”
If all went according to plan, Sam would only need to fire four arrows: one each to disable the carriage driver and the footman, one for Farran—and one more just to make sure Farran was dead.
Celaena picked up another dagger and began sharpening that as well. She jerked her chin toward the map. “Escape routes?”
“A dozen planned already,” Sam said, and showed her. With Jayne’s house as a starting point, Sam had picked multiple streets in every direction where he could fire his arrows—which led to multiple escape routes that would get Sam away as quickly as possible.
“Remind me again why I’m not going?” The dagger in her hands let out a long whine.
“Because you’ll be here, packing?”
“Packing?” She stilled the sharpening knife in her hand.
He returned his attention to the map. Then he said, very carefully, “I secured us passage on a ship to the southern continent, leaving in five days.”
“The southern continent.”
Sam nodded, still focusing on the map. “If we’re going to get away from Rifthold, then we’re going to get away from this entire continent, too.”
“That wasn’t what we discussed. We decided to move to another city on this continent. And what if there’s another Assassins’ Guild on the southern continent?”
“Then we’ll ask to join them.”
“I’m not going to grovel to join some no-name guild and be subservient to some would-be infamous assassins!”
Sam looked up. “Is this really about your pride, or is it because of the distance?”
“Both!” She slammed down the dagger and the honing stone on the rug. “I was willing to move to a place like Banjali or Bellhaven or Anielle. Not to an entirely new continent—a place we hardly know anything about! That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“At least we’d be out of Adarlan’s empire.”