*COMPLETE* There are whispers across the kingdoms that the Paragon, that strangely gifted person who can wield all four Skills, has been found.
They're wrong, of course. No one has caught the Paragon. Allayria should know: she's it.
But Allayr...
The door closes behind Allayria with a soft click and she risks a glance back, the musical sound of the call still ringing in her ears. Either Ben is pissed at her, which seems likely, or they are trying to warn her about something. Choosing to be cautious and believe the latter, she slips the knife out again, remolding the tip as she scans the richly carpeted hallway. She can hear voices, to her excitement, and they seem to be close by.
Keeping low, she moves along that blessed, quiet carpet, allowing herself to quest out with her Spirit Skill. With so little practice, she keeps her probing to a feather-light brush, afraid if she branches out too far someone will feel her. It's an old fear: there have been too many moments, too many strange seconds when a face or an animal has turned back to find her in the crowd for her to trust the silence of Spirit Skilling. Certainly the Jarles that was sent has Skill, and it seems very possible that he could pick up on her presence if she pries too much.
Probing further, she senses, with a thrill that has little to do with the situation, the presence of two men in the room across the hall to her right. From what she can tell, the servants have remained downstairs—and Brezkin's guard too, much to her surprise.
He trusts them enough to meet the messenger alone? she wonders, scooting around the corner and across the hall so she is pressed up next to the door. She can just make out their words now, rushed and angry, behind the muffle of plaster and wood.
"It's not really my concern what happened over there." What must be Brezkin's voice suddenly speaks, cutting through the conversation. "I supply, you compensate. Anything outside of that is not part of the deal."
"What hurts the Jarles hurts you," the other man answers, his voice flat and hard. "The General is not pleased that an organized, two-part attack was executed by what appears to be Keesark forces without so much as a warning from our friends—"
"What was I supposed to do?" Brezkin snaps. "I told you, I didn't hear a thing about it. Not from my Halften friends, not from the king, not from the council. Ruben didn't even hint at anything at the damned meeting."
"I certainly hope that is so. It would be most disappointing to learn otherwise," the man answers. "It is better to keep us on your side, especially when you consider the documents that were stolen from the General's safe."
A chair shifts suddenly and Allayria nearly jumps back.
She has to lean forward to catch Brezkin's next words, pressing her face against the cool wall.
"What kind of correspondence?"
"I think you know what correspondence the General would keep in his safe."
"No I don't because if I was the General I wouldn't keep any correspondence at all."
"The General likes to have some insurance."
"Well, how has that worked out for him?" Brezkin shouts, his words flinty steel slicing through the air. "Why should I trust the man who puts that kind of information in a place that someone can break into?"
The messenger pauses, and then: "It was not in a place that just anyone can break into. No thief, however skilled, could get in there. It had to have been a Smith-caller."
The room is silent for a moment, and then: "What the hell are you talking about? Your General said—"
"He said most, not all."
"So what? You have some rogue Smith-caller running around in Keesark, or is this an inside job?"
"No Jarles," the messenger answers, his tone hardening like the biting edge of ice, "would do such a thing."
"Well, someone did, and you—" a loud thud accentuates Brezkin's point, "will find out who immediately. If anyone here gets a hold of that information I am dead, Snyder. Do you understand that? You've lost your contact in Solveigard."
"We are quite aware of that fact." Wood scrapes across wood and boots clank down on the floor. "It is why we are here. We are locating the culprits, and we will retrieve what is ours, but it is very possible that you have already been compromised. The General suggests that you 'clean shop' as they say."
"And what if I am compromised?" Brezkin snaps, his chair scraping back on the floor too.
She hears the doorknob turn and scrambles back, pushing through into a closed, darkened room and crouching down, peering out through the sliver of space between the door and the frame just as Snyder enters the hall, face turned back to the study.
"Handle it," he is saying, and she sees his brows lift humorlessly before his face settles back into its stony countenance. "We will be in contact soon."
He disappears down the stairs without another word as Brezkin, pale-faced but for the bright splotches of red on his cheeks, walks out and stares after him.
Seconds pass, then a maid, carrying a bundle of linens climbs the stairs. She has her head tucked down and seems to be making a beeline for the room Allayria is in, but Brezkin suddenly reaches out, a hand clamping onto her wrist.
"Where is Serfigue?" he demands as the woman's head jerks up and back.
"I— He has not returned, my lord."
"Tell the guards to find him," he hisses, his grip shaking her arm. "He is to meet me at the office. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
He releases her with an impatient thrust of his hand.
"Do it now!" he shouts, and the woman hurries down the stairs.
He begins to follow her, then halts, hesitating before dashing back into the study.
Allayria hears the faint sound of shuffling papers and tinkling glass, then the loud thud of something moving. When Brezkin tears into the hall again she spies a long silver key in his hand.
A key to a room, maybe, or a safe? she wonders, her gaze latching onto the slim object as he too heads down the stairs. Whatever it is, she needs to tail him.
She scuffles to her feet, casting a sharp eye down the hall again. She turns to give a cursory look at the room behind her and freezes.
In the small, canopied bed is a small child—a girl, she thinks—tucked into soft cottons and silks, their tiny hands wrapped around a small, stuffed rabbit and their eyes, wide in the moonlight, fixed on Allayria.
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I know, with all the cliff-hanging I'm doing this story is going to be labeled an extreme sport. HA.
Ok, I will stop now.
And I know, this one was a pretty "talky" chapter. To be frank, "Call Them As You See Them" through the next two chapters was one long "chapter" on my Word doc, so it's been a challenge to break it up in a logical/satisfying way. The talking all has a purpose though, so take heart. (Or maybe note?)
Note: A full view of the header art can be found on my deviantart account here: http://asimsluvr.deviantart.com/art/Iaves-658285947
