price,” he said. “Twenty years for a hundred yards of Spidersilk. I thought they meant to take them off the end of my life. But even if they’d warned me, I would have said yes.” She eyed the caravan behind him. This much Spidersilk was enough to enable him to live what years he had left as a very, very wealthy man.
“Why not take it to Rifthold?”
“Because I’ve seen Rifthold, and Orynth, and Banjali. I’d like to see what a hundred yards of Spidersilk might fetch me outside of Adarlan’s empire.”
“Is there anything to be done about the years you lost?”
He waved a hand. “I followed the western side of the mountains on my way here, and met an old witch along the way. I asked if she could fix me, but she said what was taken was taken, and only the death of the spider who consumed my twenty years could return them to me.” He examined his hands, already lined with age. “For a copper more, she told me that only a great warrior could slay a stygian spider. The greatest warrior in the land … Though perhaps an assassin from the North might do.”
“How did you—”
“You can’t honestly think no one knows about the sessiz suikast? Why else would a seventeen-year-old girl bearing exquisite daggers be here unescorted? And one who holds such fine company in Rifthold, no less. Are you here to spy for Lord Berick?”
Celaena did her best to quell her surprise. “Pardon me?”
The merchant shrugged, glancing toward the towering palace. “I heard from a city guard that strange dealings go on between Berick and some of the Silent Assassins.”
“Perhaps,” was all Celaena said. The merchant nodded, not all that interested in it anymore. But Celaena tucked the information away for later. Were some of the Silent Assassins actually working for Berick? Perhaps that was why Ansel had insisted on keeping the meeting so secret—maybe the Master didn’t want the names of the suspected traitors getting out.
“So?” the merchant asked. “Will you retrieve my lost years for me?”
She bit her lip, thoughts of spies instantly fading away. To journey into the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains, to slay a stygian spider. She could certainly see herself battling the eight-legged monstrosities. And witches. Though after Ansel’s story, meeting a witch—especially one belonging to the Ironteeth Clans—was the last thing she ever wanted to do. For a heartbeat, she wished Sam were with her. Even if she told him about this encounter, he’d never believe her. But would anyone ever believe her?
As if he could read her daydreams, he said: “I could make you rich beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“I’m already rich. And I’m unavailable until the end of the summer.”
“I won’t be back from the southern continent for at least a year, anyway,” he countered.
She examined his face, the gleam in his eyes. Adventure and glory aside, anyone who’d sell twenty years of his life for a fortune couldn’t be trusted. But …
“The next time you’re in Rifthold,” she said slowly, “seek out Arobynn Hamel.” The man’s eyes widened. She wondered how he’d react if he knew who she was. “He’ll know where to find me.” She turned from the table.
“But what’s your name?”
She looked over her shoulder. “He’ll know where to find me,” she repeated, and began walking back toward the stall with the pointed shoes.
“Wait!” She paused in time to see him fumbling with the folds of his tunic. “Here.” He set down a plain wooden box on the table. “A reminder.”
Celaena flipped open the lid and her breath caught. A folded bit of woven Spidersilk lay inside, no larger than six square inches. She could buy ten horses with it. Not that she’d ever sell it. No, this was an heirloom to be passed down from generation to generation. If she ever had children. Which seemed highly unlikely.
“A reminder of what?” She shut the lid and tucked the small box into the inner pocket of her white tunic.
The merchant smiled sadly. “That everything has a price.”
A phantom pain flashed through her face. “I know,” she said, and left.
She wound up buying the shoes, though it was nearly impossible to pass over the lilac perfume, which smelled even more lovely the second time she approached the priestesses’ stall. When the city bells pealed three o’clock, she was sitting on the lip of the fountain, munching on what she hoped was mashed beans inside a warm bread pocket.
Ansel was fifteen minutes late, and didn’t apologize. She