Paragon - Book I

The Little Black Book

When they climb the ladder they see the black book is open, twisted open in Iaves' fingers, which are splotched red and white with pressure.

Allayria takes in his flashing eyes, the flare of his nostrils, and the bitter curl of his mouth and she turns away, looking out across the starlight-strewn cityscape. There are bright lights congregated at the baker's and she begins to count the guards, hovering at corners, running down streets, perched high on horses. Smoke still rises and amongst the clamor of hooves and feet and the white noise of low murmurings she can hear the faint sounds of merriment, in those isolated, unaware pockets of Solveigard. She wonders what they will think in the morning, when the papers run. The rumors will grow quickly and wild, fed on a diet of paranoia, posturing, and hysteria.

She doesn't want to know anymore of what's in that book. She doesn't want to be infected by its slow evil, the terrible knowledge of what men in high castles can do to the innocent and the unprotected.

"I'm going to strangle that little shit," Iaves announces suddenly, his voice an acid burn across steel. He's standing up, marching over to the ladder. "Maybe we'll do a little brain surgery on him, see how he likes it—"

"You're a little late to the party," Meg interrupts. "Allayria got to him first."

Allayria turns, putting her back to the slow churning of the city. Both Iaves and Ben look surprised at this news.

"He had nothing of value left to say," she says, folding her arms across her chest as the wind picks up, shifting up her neck and across her scalp. "We buried him in the basement."

Ben frowns.

"Are you sure?" he presses, an edge to his voice she hasn't heard before. "He didn't know anything else about this project? We couldn't have worked him for anything else?"

"Everything he knew is in that book," she says steadily. "He had nothing valuable left to say."

He must catch the spasm of disturbance pass across her face because he hesitates, and then says: "I wish you had waited for us to speak with him, but if you are convinced..."

"There's literally no point in talking about this," Meg supplies from her corner, an ugly grimace etched on her face as her wide eyes scan the contents of the book, "Serfigue is dead. Unless you've got hereto unforeseen powers, griping isn't going to change that."

"Not," she adds, flinging the book down onto the table with a loud thwack, "that I'm teary-eyed over it. I really hope you made him suffer, Allayria."

"He certainly did," she says quietly.

Iaves grunts.

"It's the little things in life," he drawls.

They sit like that for what feels like forever, but no time at all, watching the bright lights of guards illuminate the city streets like the scrawling lines of veins underneath skin. After a time, Ben slings his pack to hang down his front, digging into a side pocket with a frown. He finds whatever he was scrounging for and tosses it at Allayria.

She catches it: a heavy, cold thing that seems to weigh down her hands more than it should. She turns it over, studying the dull, metallic sheen of it in the moonlight.

"That's the thing Serfigue had," Ben tells her, swinging the bag up onto his back once more. "It was whirling and beeping when we caught him, but it smashed against the ground and it's gone cold since. I can't figure out how to turn it on again, but I thought maybe you could try your metal Skilling on it."

Allayria holds it up, looking at a flat, smooth side. She pushes feeling at it but, like that safe back in Fort Morgalth, there's something wrong with it. She can't sense it, can't touch that soundless hum that should be there, deep within it. Her fingers twitch, and she experiences that unnerving anxiety again. Her free hand slips into her pocket, clutching the smooth, murmuring metal pellets inside.