too well for her liking, cut in. “And how many can we expect to lose on the journey to Rifthold?” His face was relatively neutral, though his brown eyes flashed with annoyance. Fine—he was a good liar. As good as she was, maybe.
Rolfe ran a hand through his dark hair. “Don’t you two ever stop questioning? There’s no way of predicting how many slaves you’ll lose. Just keep them watered and fed.”
A low growl slipped through her teeth, but Rolfe was already walking to his group of guards. Celaena and Sam followed him, observing as the last of the slaves were shoved onto the deck.
“Where are the slaves from yesterday?” Sam asked.
Rolfe waved a hand. “Most are on that ship, and will leave tomorrow.” He pointed to a nearby ship and ordered one of the slave drivers to start the inspection.
They waited until a few slaves had been looked over, offering remarks on how fit a slave was, where he’d fetch a good price in Rifthold. Each word tasted fouler than the last.
“Tonight,” she said to the Pirate Lord, “you can guarantee that this ship’s protected?” Rolfe sighed loudly and nodded. “That watchtower across the bay,” she pressed. “I assume that they’ll also be responsible for monitoring this ship, too?”
“Yes,” Rolfe snapped. Celaena opened her mouth, but he interrupted. “And before you ask, let me say that we change the watch just before dawn.” So they’d have to target the morning watch instead, to avoid any alarm being raised at dawn—at high tide. Which was a slight hitch in her plan, but they could easily fix it.
“How many of the slaves speak our language?” she asked.
Rolfe raised a brow. “Why?”
She could feel Sam tense beside her, but she shrugged. “It might add to their value.”
Rolfe studied her a bit too closely, then whirled to face a slave woman standing nearby. “Do you speak the common tongue?”
She looked this way and that, clutching her scraps of clothing to her—a mix of fur and wool undoubtedly worn to keep her warm in the frigid mountain passes of the White Fangs.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Rolfe demanded. The woman lifted her shackled hands. Raw, red skin lay around the iron.
“I think the answer is no,” Sam offered.
Rolfe glared at him, then walked through the stables. “Can any of you speak the common tongue?” He repeated himself, and was about to turn back when an older Eyllwe man—reed thin and covered with cuts and bruises—stepped forward.
“I can,” he said.
“That’s it?” Rolfe barked at the slaves. “No one else?” Celaena approached the man who had spoken, committing his face to memory. He recoiled at her mask and her cloak.
“Well, at least he might fetch a higher price,” Celaena said over her shoulder to Rolfe. Sam summoned Rolfe with a question about the mountain-woman in front of him, providing enough distraction. “What’s your name?” Celaena asked the slave.
“Dia.” His long, frail fingers trembled slightly.
“You’re fluent?”
He nodded. “My—my mother was from Bellhaven. My father was a merchant from Banjali. I grew up with both languages.”
And he’d probably never worked a day in his life. How had he gotten caught up in this mess? The other slaves on the deck hung back, huddling together, even some of the larger men and women whose scars and bruises marked them as fighters—prisoners of war. Had they already seen enough of slavery to break them? For both her sake and theirs, she hoped not.
“Good,” she said, and strode away.
Hours later, no one noticed—or if they did, they certainly didn’t care—when two cloaked figures slipped into two rowboats and headed toward the slave ships hovering several hundred yards offshore. A few lanterns illuminated the behemoth vessels, but the moon was bright enough for Celaena to easily make out the Golden Wolf as she rowed toward it.
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