The Assassin and the Underworld by Sarah J. Maas Page B

him.
    Darkness and water. In the moments it took for her to adjust to the dim streetlight leaking in through the grate high, high above, she could feel a sudden gush of water against her legs. It was up to her lap in an instant.
    She cursed violently and wriggled hard against the ropes. But as the ropes cut into her arms, she remembered: the built-in blades. It was a testament to the inventor’s skill that Philip hadn’t found them, even though he must have searched her. Yet the bindings were almost too tight for her to release them …
    She twisted her wrists, fighting for any shred of space to flick her hand. The water pooled around her waist. They must have built the sewer dam at the other end of the city; it would take a few minutes before it completely flooded this part.
    The rope wouldn’t budge, but she flicked her wrist, doing as the master tinkerer had told her, again and again. Then, at last, the whine and splash of the blade as it shot out. Pain danced down the side of her hand, and she swore. She’d cut herself on the damn thing. Thankfully, it didn’t feel deep.
    Immediately she started on the ropes, her arms aching while she twisted them as far as she could to angle against the bindings. They should have used iron shackles.
    There was a sudden release of tension around her middle, and she almost fell face-first into the swirling black water as the rope gave. Two heartbeats later, the rest of the ropes were off, though she cringed as she plunged her hands into the filthy water to cut her feet from the chair legs.
    When she stood, the water was at her thighs. And cold. Icy, icy cold. She felt things sliding against her as she splashed for the landing, struggling to keep upright in the fierce current. Rats were being swept past by the dozen, their squeals of terror barely audible over the roar of the water. By the time she reached the stone steps, the water was already pooling there, too. She tried the iron handle. It was locked. She tried to plunge one of her blades in alongside the threshold, but it bounced back. The door was sealed so tightly that nothing was getting through.
    She was trapped.
    Celaena looked down the length of the sewer. Rain was still pouring in from above, but the streetlights were bright enough that she could see the curved walls. There had to be some ladder to the street—there
had
to be.
    She couldn’t see any—not near her. And the grates were so high up that she’d have to wait until the sewer filled entirely before trying her luck. But the current was so strong that she’d probably be swept away.
    â€œThink,” she whispered. “Think, think.”
    Water rose higher on the landing, lapping now at her ankles.
    She kept her breathing calm. Panicking would accomplish nothing. “
Think
.” She scanned the sewer.
    There might be a ladder, but it would be farther down. That meant braving the water—and the dark.
    On her left, the water rose endlessly, rushing in from the other half of the city. She looked to her right. Even if there wasn’t a grate, she might make it to the Avery.
    It was a very, very big “might.”
    But it was better than waiting here to die.
    Celaena sheathed her blades and plunged into the smelly, oily water. Her throat closed up, but she willed herself to keep from vomiting. She was
not
swimming through the entire capital’s refuse. She was
not
swimming through rat-infested waters. She was
not going to die
.
    The current was faster than she expected, and she pulled against it. Grates passed overhead, ever nearer, but still too distant. And then there, on the right! Midway up the wall, still several feet above the water line, was a small tunnel opening. It was made for a solitary worker. Rainwater leaked out over the lip of the tunnel—somewhere, it
had
to lead to the street.
    She swam hard for the wall, fighting to keep the current from sweeping her past the tunnel. She hit the wall and