Even from across the room, the terror on the girls’ faces was evident.

Both Celaena and Sam struggled to keep from going rigid. Farran crossed the large chamber and inspected the dens on the other side. By that time, the girls there were prepared. When Farran had finished, he looked over his shoulder and nodded to Helmson.

Helmson sagged with what could only be relief, but then paled and quickly found somewhere else to be as Farran snapped his fingers at one of the sentries near a small door. Immediately, the door opened and a shackled, dirty, muscular man was dragged out by another sentry. The prisoner looked half-dead already, but the moment he saw Farran, he started begging, thrashing against the sentry’s grip.

It was hard to hear, but Celaena discerned enough from the man’s frantic pleading to get the gist of it: he was a fighter in the Vaults, owed Jayne more money than he could ever repay, and had tried to cheat his way out of it.

Although the prisoner promised to repay Jayne with interest, Farran just smiled, letting the man babble until at last he paused for a shuddering breath. Then Farran jerked his chin toward a door hidden behind a ragged curtain, and his smile grew as the sentry dragged the still-pleading man toward it. As the door opened, Celaena caught a glimpse of a stairwell that swept downward.

Without so much as a look in the direction of the patrons discreetly watching from their tables, Farran led the sentry and his prisoner inside and shut the door. Whatever was about to happen was Jayne’s version of justice.

Sure enough, five minutes later, a scream pierced through the Vaults.

It was more animal than human. She’d heard screams like that before—had witnessed enough torture at the Keep to know that when people screamed like that, it meant that the pain was just beginning. By the end, when that sort of pain happened, the victims had usually blown out their vocal cords and could only emit hoarse, shattered shrieks.

Celaena gritted her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. The barkeep gave a sharp wave to the minstrels in the corner, and they immediately started up a song to cover the noise. But screams still echoed up from beneath the stone floor. Farran wouldn’t kill the man right away. No, his pleasure came from the pain itself.

“It’s time to leave,” Celaena said, noting how tightly Sam gripped his mug.

“We can’t just—”

“We can,” she said sharply. “Believe me, I’d like to burst in there, too. But this place is designed like a death trap, and I’ve no desire to make my final stand here, or right now.” Sam was still staring at the stairwell door. “When the time comes,” she added, putting a hand on his arm, “you’ll make sure he pays his debt.”

Sam turned to her, his face concealed within the shadows of the hood, but she could read the aggression in his body well enough. “He’ll pay his debt for all of this,” Sam snarled. And that’s when Celaena noticed that some of the girls were weeping, some shook, some just stared at nothing. Yes, Farran had visited before, had used that room to do Jayne’s dirty work—while reminding everyone else not to cross the Crime Lord. How many horrors had these girls witnessed—or at least heard?

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.