Archer slid his hands into his pockets. “One night about two months ago, I was here when three of his friends came over—all of them clients of mine, too. It was urgent, they said, and when Davis slipped out of the bedroom …”
She gave him a half smile. “You somehow accidentally overheard everything?”
Archer smiled back, but it faded as he again looked at Davis, who was pouring wine for the people assembled around him, including some young women who looked a year or two shy of sixteen. Celaena’s own smile vanished as well. This was a side of Rifthold that she hadn’t missed in the least.
“They spent more time ranting about the king than making plans. And regardless of what they might claim, I don’t think they truly care about Aelin Galathynius. I think they just want to find a ruler who best serves their interests—and maybe they only want her to raise an army so their businesses can thrive during the war that would ensue. If they aid her, give her badly needed supplies …”
“Then she’d owe them. They want a puppet queen, not a true ruler.” Of course—of course they would want something like that. “Are they even from Terrasen?”
“No. Davis’s family was, years ago, but he’s spent his whole life in Rifthold. If he claims loyalty to Terrasen, it’s only a half truth.”
She ground her teeth. “Self-serving bastards.”
Archer shrugged. “That may be true. But they’ve also rescued a good number of would-be victims from the king’s gallows, apparently. The night his friends burst into the house, it was because they’d managed to save one of their informants from being interrogated by the king. They smuggled him out of Rifthold before dawn broke the next day.”
Did Chaol know about this? Given how he’d reacted to killing Cain, she didn’t think torturing and hanging traitors were a part of his duties—or were even mentioned to him. Or Dorian, for that matter.
But if Chaol wasn’t in charge of interrogating possible traitors, then who was? Was this person the source who had given the king his latest list of traitors to the crown? Oh, there were too many things to consider, too many secrets and tangled webs.
Celaena asked, “Do you think you can get me into Davis’s office right now? I want to look around.”
Archer smirked. “My darling, why do you think I brought you over here?” He smoothly led her to a nearby side door—a servants’ entrance. No one noticed as they slipped through, and if they had, Archer’s hands roaming over her bodice, her arms, her shoulders, her neck, would suggest that they were going through the door for some privacy.
A seductive smile on his face, Archer tugged her down the small hallway, then up the stairs, always taking care to keep his hands moving on her lest anyone see them. But all the servants were preoccupied, and the upstairs hall was clear and quiet, its wood-paneled walls and red carpeting immaculate. The paintings here—several from artists she recognized—were worth a small fortune. Archer moved with a stealth that probably came from years of slipping in and out of bedrooms. He led her to a set of locked double doors.
Before she could pull one of Philippa’s pins from her hair to unlock it, a pick appeared in Archer’s hand. He gave her a conspirator’s grin. A heartbeat after that, the office door swung open, revealing a room lined with bookshelves over an ornate blue carpet, with potted ferns scattered throughout. A large desk sat in the center, two armchairs before it, and a chaise sprawled near a darkened fireplace. Celaena paused in the doorway, pressing on her bodice just to feel the slender dagger tucked inside. She brushed her legs together, checking the two daggers strapped to her thighs.
“I should go downstairs,” Archer said, glancing at the hallway behind them. The sounds of a waltz floated up from the ballroom. “Try to be quick.”
She raised an eyebrow, even though the mask covered her features. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”
He leaned in, brushing his lips against her neck. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said onto her skin. Then he turned and was gone.
Celaena quickly shut the door, then strode to the windows at the other side of the room and closed the curtains. The dim light shining beneath the door was enough to see by as she moved to the ironwood desk and lit a candle. The evening papers, a stack of response cards from tonight’s masque, a personal expenses ledger …
Normal. Completely normal. She searched the rest of the desk, rifling through the drawers and knocking on every surface to check for trick compartments. When that yielded nothing, she walked to one of the bookcases, tapping the books to see whether any were hollowed out. She was about to turn away when a title caught her eye.
A book with a single Wyrdmark written on the spine in bloodred ink.
She pulled it out and rushed to the desk, setting down the candle as she opened the book.
It was full of Wyrdmarks—every page covered with them, and with words in a language she didn’t recognize. Nehemia had said it was secret knowledge—that the Wyrdmarks were so old they’d been forgotten for centuries. Titles like this had been burned with the rest of the books on magic. She had found one in the palace library—The Walking Dead—but that had been a fluke. The art of using the Wyrdmarks was lost; only Nehemia’s family knew how to properly use their power. But here, in her hands … She flipped through the book.
Someone had written a sentence on the inside of the back cover, and Celaena brought the candle closer as she peered at what had been scribbled.
It was a riddle—or some strange turn of phrase:
It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.
But what in hell did it mean? And what was Davis, some half-corrupt businessman, doing with a book on Wyrdmarks, of all things? If he was trying to interfere with the king’s plans … For the sake of Erilea, she prayed the king had never even heard of Wyrdmarks.
She memorized the riddle. She would write it down when she returned to the castle—maybe ask Nehemia if she knew what it meant. Or if she’d heard of Davis. Archer might have given her vital information, but he obviously didn’t know everything.